


and in this life we make do

by orphan_account



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-30
Updated: 2010-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They ran with "JOHNNY WEIR GETS HIS GOLD AFTER ALL". Everyone thought it was a hilarious jeux de mots. It wasn't. The thin gold ring on his finger was the most reserved part of Johnny's attire that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

MAC was supposed to have first dibs, in the early hours of February the 21th, but the truth was that the moment the news hit the press, NBC was all over Johnny's shit, and all that was left was a resounding echo of, 'Evan who?'.

They ran with "JOHNNY WEIR GETS HIS GOLD AFTER ALL". Everyone thought it was a hilarious jeux de mots. It wasn't. The thin gold ring on his finger was the most reserved part of Johnny's attire that day.

Andrea Joyce went through the usual questions of any Olympic reporter with as much grace as she could muster, hurried along by her agitation to get to _the_ question, the one every single media delegation would be asking him today.

"So tell us," she said. For once, her smile was not the grimace he was subjected to whenever one of the leeches commented about his 'clockwise spinning'. "Tell us what it's like to have two of the most important times of your life collide this way?"

Johnny forced himself to keep a straight face. "I think the thing to remember is that while it's indeed a very special moment in my life, it's mostly just a moment for me- _us_. Both of us. And our families. It's not for the world; it shouldn't mean more - to anyone but us - than when hundreds of other couples do it. And it shouldn't distract from the fact that the Olympics are still going on around us. This is our private business. Other people are having the most special moments of their lives too, and theirs are in areas that would be more appropriately showcased on a sport network."

She didn't get the hint. "Why did you do it _now_?" she asked, even though they had to be running out of time for the segment. "The copy of the marriage certificate that's been circulating - it places the marriage on the night right after your sixth place free skate?"

Johnny had to strain for the pleasant smile to stay in place. "We went out, we celebrated." He swallowed. "We'd been planning on it for a while now." _Keep it general_ , Tara had said. _Don't give them any details they can hang you on._ There were going to be enough inconsistencies floating around without them giving anyone enough material to build them matching coffins.

"And it just happened?"

Johnny shrugged, put on his adorable-face. "We couldn't resist. We didn't want to wait any longer. And, you know. There really wasn't a reason not to, especially since we're in Canada. With the legal troubles for couples like us in the US..."

"And in Switzerland?"

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "We're not in Switzerland," he said curtly.

"All right, cut that," Andrea said to her team, waving at her camera man to stop rolling. She turned to Johnny, still smiling. She had to be ecstatic to go first on this story. "That was pretty good, right?"

"Yeah," Johnny said tonelessly. "Pretty good."

She turned to her team and got them back in position. "All right, I have two more, maybe we can squeeze them in somewhere. We could lose the part about the Olympic preparation, everyone's going to ask that."

No one was going to ask about that, but Johnny didn't tell her that, because it was obvious. _It's a game_ , he repeated in his head. _Just play the game_. It would be over soon.

 

~*~

 

BBC World Radio talked at length about the legalities of gay marriage and his stance on HRC, which was only marginally better than the NBC interview. Johnny had no idea what to tell them. He hadn't been watching a lot of news lately. He'd been focussing on practice and relaxing enough afterwards in order to get back to practice a few hours later.

He bullshitted his way through. He talked about Gaga, and how she was a beacon of glitter and rainbows for the gay rights movement. He talked about the equality spirit of the Olympics, and how much it meant that he had the opportunity to represent the United States - yes, even with the current conflicts regarding gay rights.

Australian TV confronted him with the clip of those idiot anchors and asked about his stance on their transgressions. It was almost easier to talk about that, because it was routine by now. He knew what to say when it came to people being bigots about who he was. People making fun of him on TV wasn't news, and these days, he was far better at dealing with it than he'd been four years ago.

He had no idea what to say when asked about his plans regarding the sport of figure skating. He could read it in their eyes, their expectation of his retirement so that he could enjoy wedded bliss with his husband, now that the biggest competition of his life was over. He stayed indecisive. "If I feel like my body can take it," he said once, and then, to another reporter, "Maybe I'll just take a break for a while, and figure out where I want to go next." People were used to ambivalence from him. He gave them more.

Vanity Fair had wanted him to pose for their issue. They'd agreed on the rings on his chest and blood splatters over his naked torso when they'd talked before, but once they got him in make-up, considerations were voiced. He didn't understand why things had changed. Nothing was different, but they said, "Let's go quieter. Let's make it about the happiest day of your life. Maybe blood isn't the best way to celebrate -"

"No," he said. "No, no, no. We're doing this my way, or we're not doing it at all." He'd already had to get rid of his Sundance film crew. This particular drama was not going to end up on the TV show, and even though he hadn't been the one to put down the ultimatum on that, he silently agreed. They needed to find a quick, painless way out of this; they just... needed more time. Time they didn't have, and with every moment, they got themselves trapped more deeply in their web of lies.

The VF crew gave in, because a blood-splattered Johnny Weir was still better than _no_ Johnny Weir, when every other big newspaper and TV station on the planet was going to get a piece of him soon. He knew he was going to pay for his little show of power by sitting through a million questions on 'his special moment' later, when it came to the scripted interview, but while they put him in a full-body paint suit, three hours of sitting still, enjoying the brush over his skin, he didn't care. He just leaned back and closed his eyes, trying hard not to think.

 

~*~

 

They'd had to move out of the Olympic village after the copy of the marriage certificate leaked. No one was entirely sure whether it was in violation of the Olympic rules or not, but it disturbed the peace of the sanctum, and so the troublemakers had to be removed. Johnny had never felt more like cancerous tissue in his life.

It did however ensure that when he returned to the hotel in the evening, he had a long stretch of quiet waiting for him. Galina had not managed to get a room at the same hotel. It was Vancouver during the Olympics; he didn't know what she'd expected. He was just glad he wasn't in for another whipping tonight. The last one had been enough to last him a lifetime.

The Canadian federation, for once, had been generous - not that they'd had much choice. Cheaper rooms were booked out. Their suite had a huge living area with a flat screen TV and a kitchenette in a corner, a coffee maker, a mini fridge. There was a huge bedroom adjacent, and their jacuzzi was to die for. He let himself slide into the bubble bath and breathed freely for the first time in weeks.

He tried not to think about tomorrow. His stomach clenched at the thought, more anxiety rushing through him, making his intestines roll with concern. More interviews, more opportunities to fuck this all up beyond repair. If this went up in flames, he could forget any sort of career in TV. Tara hadn't said it in quite so many words, but the implication was there.

He spent twenty minutes escaping into the realm of fantasy within his mind. His skin turned pruny. He spent another twenty minutes putting on crémes and moisturizers and his night dressing and then put on his bathrobe to make his way to the bedroom, where he saw that someone was lying curled up on the master bed.

Stéphane looked horrible. His hair was the kind of sex-hair that was clearly not sex-hair. There were dark rings under his eyes which Johnny could see even though his eyes were closed. The corners of his mouth were turned down in a frown. He looked like he'd been dragged over the ground by a horde of ravenous monsterbirds and had come out on top, but only barely.

When Johnny stepped closer, Stéphane's eyes opened. His pupils needed a second to adjust, then he was sitting up, looking Johnny up and down before he averted his eyes. "You're back," he said, and yawned.

"I've been back for about an hour. Did you only just -?"

"Yes. I didn't realize anyone – that you were here, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come in here and take up the bed."

"No, it's fine. You look tired. You should take the bed tonight."

"The couch is fine."

It was astonishing how going through the nine circles of hell together could suddenly turn one's attitude around. Johnny remembered only a week ago there had been hissing and spitting and their usual diva-clash, even off ice. He drew his bathrobe more tightly around himself and sat down on the bed. Then he decided to stop the charade, just for tonight, and laid down next to Stéphane, who'd sunk back onto the mattress, too. He was careful not to touch.

"How the fuck did we get into this mess?" he asked when silence stretched like the canyon between them.

Stéphane made an agreeing sound.

More silence. Johnny turned onto his side and curled up with his back to Stéphane. Then he rolled over onto his back again and stared at the ceiling, before he turned onto his other side. Stéphane hadn't moved.

There were no cameras here. Just the two of them, alone, their wedding night behind them. He couldn't even think about that without his stomach turning. They'd had their differences, but there was no need to make the situation more painful than it needed to be.

"Are you all right?" Johnny asked softly.

"I'll be," Stéphane said. He didn't turn around. He sat up instead and rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He'd never looked more tired, and he'd never looked more handsome. Johnny averted his eyes.

"Go to sleep," Stéphane told him over his shoulder. "I'll take a shower. Wake me up tomorrow morning?"

Johnny watched him scurry off to the bathroom and close the door. Then he buried his face in the pillows and screamed his head off.

 

~*~

 

He didn't fall asleep. He tried, but sleep wouldn't come, and none of his stay-in-bed methods worked. He gave up around midnight and rolled out of bed. He felt worn-down, and he didn't think he could take another day of this. The ladies' short program was tomorrow. He wanted to watch Ksenia light up the rink, he wanted to stand side by side with Galina, looking like a prospective coach. He had no intention of doing interviews or press tomorrow, it had been his free day even before everything went down; but if he showed up at the rink, there might be a commotion.

He booted his notebook, checked his email. Tara had written a few hours ago - she was looking after Rachael at the moment, but it was getting clearer that his would be the issue to concentrate on, once the ladies' competitions were over.

You need to be seen with Stéphane, she wrote. People are starting to wonder why you haven't been spending time together, especially on the first days after what they believe to be a romantic marriage. The internet is abuzz with rumors. The pictures from Korea are serving you well at the moment. Thank the gods you've always been gracious about each other to the press, there's that. If people ask - just keep saying you want privacy. Maybe you can go watch the ladies' short program together tomorrow. Remember, this doesn't have to get out of hand if we treat it like an everyday's occurence.

I got the transcripts from NBC and MAC, and Vanity Fair promised to send theirs tomorrow. It's looking good. People are respectful and supportive. The important people are, anyway. Polls online indicate the masses find the marriage idea charming and are happy for you. We should profit from that as well, though there are some voicing their displeasure about all the free publicity you're getting. Don't worry about them, they're idiots. BGJW numbers have skyrocketed since yesterday, iTunes sells have gone up, we're expecting a ratings explosion next Monday. I know it's not your intention to profit from this, but if you do, at least something good will come of it.

Oh, and call your mother, let her know you're alive. She's worried about you. She also wants to talk to Stéphane. Get some sleep, and enjoy the alone-time at your hotel with your husband :)

Tara

She was making fun of him, so things had to be better than she'd expected. Johnny closed the email, opened the one from his mom. It was about the same she'd said already on the phone the day after the free skate. Blah blah blah, she didn't know how this could have happened, but she was proud of him for taking his commitment seriously, blah blah blah, she could understand if he'd prefer to get the divorce over with, etc etc etc. He deleted without finishing it, just caught the 'I love you', which made him feel slightly better about himself.

A dozen more emails went into the trash, ads, spam, some notes from friends asking if he was all right, why he hadn't told them, how it felt to lead the married life - Johnny skimmed them, didn't reply. He had no idea what to say. There were far too many people in on the secret as it was, and he couldn't tell them all what was really going on; what would have been the point of lying in the first place if he did.

He closed the laptop again, powered it down. Then he stood and left his room.

He hadn't expected the lights to be still on in the living area where Stéphane was sleeping. Stéphane was lying on the couch he'd made up to function as a bed. He had the TV on. It was barely audible, even in the silence, just a whisper of music filtering through as the couple on the screen slid over the ice gracefully. He didn't notice Johnny.

Johnny approached the make-shift bed, and, after a moment of consideration, sat down on the edge by Stéphane's feet. It made Stéphane look away from the TV. The exhaustion was dimmed now, and his hair was damp, curling around his face. He seemed surprised to see Johnny.

"Can't sleep," Johnny said softly. "Sorry."

Stéphane half-smiled. "Me neither. 's okay. I wasn't sleeping." He heaved himself up into a sitting position, making space for Johnny to sit more comfortably. "Did you see the Dance competition?" he asked, pointing at the TV with his chin.

Johnny shook his head. "I was out doing press all day. Who won?"

"Tessa and Scott. Meryl and Charlie got the silver."

Johnny smiled. "They'll be happy about that. I thought they'd win gold maybe, with the way their season's been going. What about Tanith?"

"Fourth."

"Ah. Figured."

"I haven't seen it yet either, I wanted to judge for myself." Stéphane looked hesitant only for a moment before he added, "Do you want to stay?"

"What, here?" Johnny's eyes widened. "The night?"

"For the repeat on TV," Stéphane said.

"Oh." Johnny felt himself redden. "Sure?"

Ads came and went, another group of dancers took the ice. They watched in silence. Johnny leaned back against Stéphane's feet after a while. His eyes started drooping when Isabelle and Olivier started their program, and he couldn't help but giggle over the choice of music.

"Not very fortunate," Stéphane agreed after a minute. "Do you understand the lyrics?"

"I haven't forgotten all the French you taught me," Johnny said wryly. "And I have been practicing by myself."

Another silence fell as they watched the last group warm up. Then Stéphane said, "Are you all right?"

It wasn't a new question. He'd asked it the day before, and the day before that, since they woke up, actually, that Friday morning, entangled in bed after a night neither of them quite remembered. Or maybe they just didn't want to remember; Johnny couldn't believe how stupid they'd been.

The question, this time, was spoken so gently, and with so much interest, like Stéphane actually cared, so that Johnny felt a wave of warmth roll over him.

"No," he admitted for the first time. He picked at the cover by Stéphane's feet, and didn't quite manage to look him in the eye. "I guess I'm not. It's been really hard. People keep asking about it." He glanced down at the ring on his finger. He hadn't taken it off. It was too dangerous. He wasn't used to wearing a ring, and he might forget to put it back on. He glanced at Stéphane's - they'd quickly acquired one for him, that morning, or rather, Tara had. It was the same as Johnny's, a simple, gold band, nothing fancy.

"We can still call it off," Stéphane reminded him. "If it's getting too much, I told you I would agree if you wanted to figure out another story."

"And make up more lies?" Johnny snorted. "No, it's okay. We'll make it. We just have to get through a few months. In the summer, no one will care anymore about me, and - not to be mean, but the US of A tends to care about the US athletes, and no one else."

"Maybe by then, Galina'll have realized what a bad idea this is as well," Stéphane added.

Johnny grinned suddenly. "She never will, and you know it. She'll rip us a new one if we get a divorce."

Stéphane rolled his eyes. "I'm not scared of her."

"I am."

"You're scared of animal rights activists like they're the mob. You'd get the jitters if that famous chinchilla of yours _looked_ at you the wrong way."

Johnny glared. "Shut up. Look, Meryl and Charlie are starting."

Stéphane smirked, but he didn't add anything, so Johnny wrote that down as a win.

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up the next morning, curled into Stéphane. It was like a déjà vue to the morning half a week ago, only the couch wasn't as comfortable as the bed had been. Johnny opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling; he couldn't believe it had been four days since the night he got married. Christ, he was glad they hadn't been stupid enough to have name-changes notarized while they were at it.

Next to him, Stéphane was breathing evenly, still asleep. He was like a human furnace under the covers, and he smelled so good Johnny wanted to bury back into him and close his eyes, forget he'd woken up, stop his mind from churning like clockwork.

At the thought, his gaze fell on the clock above the door. And then he was sitting up with a 'whoosh', breathing "shit shit shit shit shit," as he scrambled off the bed, feet hitting the carpeted floor. He was fantastically late, and Galina was going to scoop out his intestines with a spoon.

Stéphane was sitting up in bed, looking around disoriented, but Johnny didn't have the time to stop and talk; he hurried into the bedroom, pulling off his pyjamas as he went. Jeans and shirt, his Team USA jacket. A visit to the bathroom to clean up later, and he was back in the living room, dressed, and it was twenty-five minutes past eleven.

Stéphane was standing in the kitchenette, barefoot, making coffee, his pyjama top too short to cover his waist, his pants hanging low on his hips. Johnny felt the sudden urge to go over and slip his hands over the skin between the garments.

"I need to go," he said instead, voice rough. "I'm meeting Galina and Ksenia. Viktor wants to get her in the right mindset, make sure she's prepared. Maybe they'll need my help."

Stéphane turned to him, cup in hand. "You want a coffee before you go?"

"Thanks, but I don't have time. I'm already over an hour late."

"I'll call her so she doesn't chew you out," Stéphane said, giving him a small smile.

Johnny smiled back before he could stop himself and left the room.

 

~*~

 

Galina wasn't angry when he arrived by Ksenia's room at the Russian part of the apartment complex. She just gave him a considering look and sat back down next to Ksenia, who gave him a little wave of hello. Johnny was nonplussed, but didn't ask, even though he badly wanted to know what exactly Stéphane had told her to make her not yell at him. When Ksenia finally left to go for a casual run around the village to get loose before her competition, Galina did take him aside, though.

"How are you?" she asked in Russian. "Is everything well?"

"I'm fine," Johnny said, and added, in his usual mix of English and Russian, "Honestly, I am. We're dealing with everything. Stéphane and I, I mean. We just stayed up watching the Free Dance last night, and we talked. I'm sorry I was late."

"All right," Galina said. She took his hand and squeezed once. "I knew you boys could make it work if you tried. Relationships are never easy, nor is marriage, but if you work hard, it will be worth it."

Johnny couldn't quite look her in the eye after that, and left soon. It was just as well now that his coaches had two Olympic skaters on their roster, not just one. And, to be brutally honest, Ksenia was the future here. Johnny wasn't even sure if he'd go to Worlds, what with everything else going on.

He wandered the hallways for a while, and found himself drifting towards the Korean suites. He hadn't spoken to Yu-Na or Jeff since Friday. He suddenly realized how that might look to them, and he didn't want Yu-Na to think that any of this was her fault. It would have been much too easy to just blame someone else; Johnny blamed lots of things on other people, but this was not going to be one of them. He could admit to himself, though, that he had been a little pissed at her (and a lot more at Jeff), irrational as that was, and had therefore avoided this conversation.

Stéphane had probably talked to her already, he reminded himself. He had no reason to feel guilty for not taking the time to find her sooner. If there was one consolation, it was probably that if anyone could push it all aside and skate, it was Yu-Na. She wouldn't let something like this mess distract her.

Johnny found her room, knocked on the door. It didn't take long for her to open up. She had snagged one of the rare single bedrooms in the village. It was a big room; she'd decorated a little, but not too much. Her bed was covered by the quilt he'd seen before, the one she took everywhere, a gift from her grandmother. There were flowers, and mascots, and Team Korea gear lying around.

She looked surprised to see him. "Johnny?" she said with an unsure smile.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said. "Can I come in?"

She nodded immediately, let him inside and closed the door behind him.

"How are you?" she asked. Her accent was still thick, but she was getting better steadily. She'd made great progress with her English since she'd first come to Canada a few years ago. Johnny wished he spoke Korean as well as she did English.

"I'm fine, thank you. Are you feeling okay? Not too nervous today?" He touched her arm lightly, and she relaxed.

"No, no, not nervous. It is just another competition? Nothing I have not done before."

"Good. That's good." Johnny took a deep breath. "Listen, about Friday night -"

"Yes, I know. I tell Stéphane and I tell you - I never am drunk. I do not know how it happened. I mean, I know what happened, but I am sorry about what happened!"

What had happened was this: Jeffrey Buttle had been in the house Thursday night. He'd watched the men's free skate, he'd congratulated Johnny on his lovely program, and Evan on his gold medal, and Johnny had immediately realized that he was lonely since Chris was doing shows, earning their keep. Johnny had been lonely himself a lot recently; he recognized a kindred soul.

They'd made it a date; Johnny had to get out of the village, and Jeff wanted someone to go clubbing with.

Jeff knew the town well. A few hours later, Johnny was showered, dressed up and had his club-face on, glitter and eyeliner and colors everywhere. Jeff hadn't looked much different. Johnny's respect for the Vancouver gay scene had immediately grown.

He had no idea how Stéphane had ended up at a table at the same karaoke bar Jeff had dragged him to, though he should have known he'd find Stéphane in one of those - if there was karaoke, Stéphane was the first guy to grab the mike. Yu-Na had been in his company, which had been a surprise. She'd arrived in Vancouver the day before, and had wanted to see the nightlife, Stéphane explained.

The rest was, as they said, history; they all got ragingly drunk on colorful fruity drinks, danced, smoked, sang and got more drunk on pure vodka shots, as Stéphane swore he could drink Johnny under the table. They ended up married the next day. Johnny could have sworn Vancouver wasn't Las Vegas, but there it was. They found a marriage license, and a certificate, naming Johnny Weir and Stéphane Lambiel lawfully wedded, witnessed by Jeff Buttle an 김연아 , Korean letters Johnny had read enough times by now to identify them as Yu-Na's name.

"It's not your fault," Johnny told Yu-Na, shrugging away the memories. "Honestly, don't blame yourself, we were stupid enough to let you have a drink. You're not even of legal drinking age -"

"I am," Yu-Na pointed out.

"All right, you are here, I forgot. So you drank, it still doesn't mean you have to apologize for Stéphane and I getting married. Don't worry about it. No, don't protest, it'll be fine. We'll keep it up for a while, then get a divorce, no one'll care. You'll see." Johnny gave her a smile.

Yu-Na smiled back hesitantly. "Stéphane says the same thing," she said. "We are really good friends." There was a sudden warning gleam in her eye when she met his gaze. "Do not hurt him. He likes you, like that. I do not understand why you not split up with him now, if you not like being married to him, but you have your reasons, I am sure."

There was some truth to her words, more probably than she realized. But they couldn't just split up. It might have worked if no one had been the wiser, if that stupid marriage certificate hadn't gone public, if Galina hadn't pressed so hard against any talk of divorce, saying marriage was a sacred institution and the bond was not to be broken and if Johnny was any sort of student of hers, he would honor this.

They hadn't really been thinking straight, at that point; they'd just gone with what the grown-ups said.

That's what it had felt like, to him, sitting around a table with adults arguing over their heads - Galina, his mom on the phone, Tara, Viktor, Nina, all having opinions and ideas, while Stéphane and him tried hard to not look at each other, panicking inside. At least, Stéphane had refused to get his parents involved in any of this, claiming none of it would reach Europe, and his parents didn't read trashy magazines.

 _Is there going to be a reception, for your respective families? Can we get statements from close family on this? What more can you tell us about your relationship – how long, when, what, who started_ \- those were the questions he'd been asked most, off camera, by the interviewers and reporters. He had no idea what to say. Mostly, he lied. The piece of paper was one thing. He could live with that certificate being there, and even the rings. He thought about having a reception, and the idea made him nauseous. It would involve people he had no intention of ever pulling into this.

He left Yu-Na with a few words of encouragement, promised not to fuck up with Stéphane when she pressed - whatever that meant - and he wished her luck, even though she wouldn't need it. She just had to do what she did in practice every day, and she'd win. Everyone knew that.

 

~*~

 

Stéphane was on the phone with someone when Johnny got back to the hotel. He'd been yelling, Johnny had heard his voice outside the door, though only muffled, unable to make out any words. He fell immediately silent when Johnny entered, then he said, "I don't want to hear it. Just - I have to go," in quick French, and tossed his cell phone on the couch.

He'd cleaned up the place. Everything was immaculate, the furniture back where they belonged, and Johnny didn't even feel the need to vacuum anymore, now that all the clothes were off the floor and neatly folded on Stéphane's suitcase in the corner. Johnny felt bad about that. He'd taken the bed and the available closet space without asking. They were in this together, no matter how much he wasn't a team player.

"Sorry about interrupting your phone call," he murmured.

Stéphane waved him off. "I was waiting for a reason to cut them off. Are you okay?"

Johnny smiled. "You always ask that."

"I always wonder."

"I'm okay. Galina didn't take my head off; whatever you told her, it worked. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

"And I spoke to Yu-Na." That elicited a wince Johnny didn't expect. Nor did he anticipate the low flush that covered Stéphane's cheeks. It was a strange reaction, and Johnny wondered what he was missing. "I didn't want her to blame herself," he explained. "We talked about what happened. She wants to know why we don't just split up." He sat down on the couch, rubbing his palms over his jeans. "I guess we could. I realized from something she said that you never really got the chance to say what you wanted. You just go along with whatever I'm saying, but if you're - if this is too much -"

"I'm fine." Stéphane sat down next to Johnny, catching his eye. "Really, don't worry about it. All the media attention, all the people wondering, it'll be hard for you. For me, if I say no comment, people won't ask, and they won't pry too much. It's a little different, no one will make a huge circus, I hope. And my family doesn't care. They're happy as long as I'm happy."

Johnny rubbed his forehead. He couldn't help the rush of relief at the words. "Thanks," he said. Stéphane touched his neck gently, and Johnny leaned into the touch before he remembered that it was all fake, and pulled back. "Are you hungry? We could go get some food, get photographed together. Tara said we should make sure people see us together."

"And go to the ladies' events together?"

"Yes," Johnny said. "That would be good. If you want to."

Stéphane shrugged. "I wanted to see that anyway. If people expect us to sit next to each other, I don't mind. And lunch sounds good. There are hundreds of restaurants in this city, we should find something we both like."

Johnny snorted. "Our tastes are not that different."

They both knew that was true. They'd been friends long before this. They'd spent their time shopping together in foreign cities where no one spoke their languages, in vague attempts to buy shoes, or handbags, or food, without getting lost. And if all else failed, well, they always had their passion for Filet Mignon.

 

~*~

 

Everyone who had any kind of opportunity to drop by, did, in order to offer congratulations. The whole of Team Japan stood one behind the other, Nobunari leading, and they made a thing of it, which was more than a little embarrassing.

Tanith and Emily as well as Evan and Charlie were there, and Tessa and Scott, and Tomás, and everyone kept glancing over as they sat down in their row to watch the ladies start their skating. Johnny felt more than once that the camera panned over them, and there were flashes whenever one of the girls wasn't on the ice. It was annoying, and tiresome, and Johnny was glad that Stéphane had insisted they sit a bit further down the rows, away from the others, never mind how rude it seemed at first.

"It's insane," Johnny heard himself bitch after the first group of skaters was done, and the next warm-up commenced. "It's like we're talking monkeys in a freakin' zoo. What's the matter with people?"

Stéphane's lips quirked. "I thought you liked the attention?"

"Oh, shut up," Johnny said. "It's not funny."

Stéphane shrugged. "You don't usually seem to mind when your fans take pictures, or fawn all over you. I don't see how this is different. As long as they don't get too close,what's the problem?"

"The problem is that these pictures are going to get dissected –"

"- and people are going to take more notice of how close we're sitting, and if we're holding hands, and how well our rings match, than the pristine way you color-matched your socks with your jacket, and that you're using a new sort of hair product that makes your hair fluffier." Stéphane hid a smile.

"I didn't see you slap on your usual t-shirt and jeans combination, either," Johnny said with icy precision.

"That's because I knew people were going to take pictures, and regardless of what people will eventually dissect, as you so nicely put, I always try to look my best."

Johnny shook his head. "Sometimes, I really wonder about you."

"Wanna give them something to dissect for real?" Stéphane smiled down at him, shuffling a little closer.

"Wait, what?" Johnny asked, heat shooting to his cheeks. His eyes flickered to Stéphane's lips and back up to meet his gaze, and he barely caught the mischievous spark before it was replaced by wry sheepishness.

"I do have practice in this part of the deal, after all," Stéphane reminded him. "I think Carolina once jokingly called it third base." And with that, he reached out and put his arm around Johnny, pulling him snug so that his face was half-smashed against Stéphane's collarbone.

"I hate you," Johnny said, sounding muffled even to his own ears. He didn't struggle quite as hard to get out of the embrace as he could have, though.

Stéphane didn't listen to him. He was already doing his practiced photo-face, aware of the once more growing number of flashes in their direction.

 

~*~

 

When Stéphane got up during the first ice resurface, Johnny remembered another thing that was so typically Stéphane that he wondered how he could have forgotten: Stéphane could not sit still if there was nothing to do. As long as there was something to watch, think about, or work on, he was great. But give him five minutes of rest, and he acted like he had bees in his pants.

"Coffee?" Stéphane asked, looking down at Johnny, who shrugged and said, "Yeah, why not?" He watched Stéphane's ass as he walked up the stairs, and didn't even bother to hide it. He figured he had a carte blanche these days, as long as Stéphane himself didn't catch him at it.

He didn't realize someone had plonked down on his other side until he pulled his gaze back in; then he almost jumped out of his skin with surprise.

"Fancy meeting you here," Tanith said, enjoying herself far too much. She looked beautiful, smiling, and she smelled heavenly. He was glad that she'd gotten over that fourth place finish so fast.

"That scented bath mix did you some good," Johnny said approvingly.

"Thanks for leaving it behind."

"I live to serve."

Tanith snorted. "As if."

"You were a bit slow in your free, the first minute or so," Johnny told her, because they always did the performance appraisal right after, and he knew she would be expecting it. "But overall, it was a great show. You should have gotten the bronze. You got screwed."

"One can always count on your honest opinion," Tanith teased. "I appreciate it. By the way –"

"Nope, these jeans don't make your ass look fat." Johnny grinned.

"My life's greatest ambition, fulfilled."

They sat for about a minute in companionable silence, then Johnny cleared his throat. "Any reason you deigned to leave your ice dancer friends up there to come and mingle with the common folk?"

Tanith caught his gaze with just about enough predatory intent to make him realize what was coming. His brain started gearing up immediately to be on par with the questions, which, coming from Tanith, wouldn't be quite as easy to fend off as those nasty reporters networks threw at him. They had been friends for years, after all, before she'd left him for Evan. She knew his wild and wicked ways just as well as he knew hers.

"How come you guys didn't tell anyone?" she finally asked. It seemed she'd either settled on the question that sounded the least like she was firing projectiles, or she honestly bought that this was real. He couldn't tell from the expression on her face, which was new.

"We didn't exactly plan on it," Johnny said. "It was a spur-of-the-moment decision which, believe me, we both regret, now that we know what kind of ruckus it's caused." And Christ almighty if that wasn't the cold, hard truth.

Tanith shot him a strange look. "I meant about your relationship. Not the marriage thing. I'm pretty sure no one expects that one to be anything but a folly of youth."

"Folly of youth, huh?" Johnny snorted. "Have you been dipping into the good literature again?"

"Maybe. And you're not answering the question."

"We're private people, and we like to keep our shit off the radar. It wasn't anyone's business." It was the company line, take it or leave it. Stéphane would say the same thing if anyone asked. Johnny didn't drop his gaze when she stared at him, taking this in.

She looked away first. "You could have at least asked me to come along," she muttered, finally. "I'd have made a great witness."

"Compulsory," Johnny reminded her. "Hey, that was part of the reason I went clubbing in the first place, remember? To give you a night in the suite –"

"Yeah, yeah, you and your memory." Tanith touched his knee. "It's okay, though, I guess. I mean, we haven't really been all that close, lately. And if I think about it, it doesn't come as that big a surprise."

Johnny's eyebrows went up. "It doesn't?"

It was Tanith's turn to snort. "Come on. I mean, once you think about it, it makes so much sense, I wonder why we didn't all see it before. Hell, I remember people making cracks about you guys not a few months ago, and there were all those times when we were on tour when the pair of you hung out together, copped up in your rooms, and we all wondered if you were or weren't hooking up."

Johnny's eyes had widened to saucer size, and he tried to slam down on the surprise. "We're not that bad," he said.

"Oh, you are. You're utterly disgusting, now that it's been put into perspective." Tanith oomphed at the elbow to her side, but it didn't stop her giggles, and after a moment, Johnny gave in and just let her poke fun at him until Stéphane got back with the coffees.

 

~*~

 

There were three more days for which he had to stay in Vancouver, filled with more press, photo shoots and then – filming. Stéphane grudgingly agreed to let his film crew follow them for an hour or two a day while they were out; but he still refused the cameras in the hotel, which was just as well, seeing as they were sleeping in separate rooms. The rest of the time, Johnny hung about, making sure he avoided and met the right people.

The only other noteworthy incident was when he got a call from Jeff, asking how he was. After that one, he spent the evening in Jeff's hotel room, being miserable, getting all his bitching off his chest – not that that helped much. Jeff mostly laughed at him and then sent him back home, no alcohol involved this time. Jeff was evil. Jeff had no idea how his signature had ruined Johnny's life.

"Maybe you should just try to enjoy it," Jeff left him as final advice, with that smirk lurking in the corner of his mouth that almost made Johnny think Jeff had planned this, if it hadn't been so obviously unplanned and disastrous. "I mean, you never know. You might find out you enjoy the married life."

"Maybe instead of marrying other people off, you should put a ring on your single lady," Johnny told him with enough tartness to earn himself another laugh and a door in the face.

Then it was time to leave Vancouver and the Olympic experience behind, and Johnny, with a look around his hotel room suite realized that he'd liked it here, whatever other setbacks and complications he'd had to endure. Plus, he couldn't speak for Stéphane, but he himself had enjoyed the luxury of having his own suite away from the Olympic village, and the opportunity to get back from a hard day of work into a sealed-off space of peace and quiet.

He looked forward to the next few days, in a way; in other ways, he didn't. L.A. was always a dual experience. It reminded him of Worlds last season, of disappointment and jealousy, but it was also the key to a world he wanted to become a part of, and he planned on taking it by storm.

Stéphane was standing in the kitchenette, drinking tea, when Johnny emerged from his room, half-finished packing.

"You'll need to come back from Switzerland once you're done dealing with your family," Johnny reminded him, even knowing that he didn't have to. It felt like he should drag this out once more, remind Stéphane, to make sure the plan would be going off without a hitch.

"When you're back from L.A. and have resumed training, I assume," Stéphane said with a nod. "You will have to let me know the address to your apartment so I can reach it comfortably. Unless you would prefer for me to find my own place –"

"However much I relish the thought of driving Galina nuts that way, I think it might be the best if you took over Paris' room, now that he's moved out and the apartment's empty. You'll have to put up with obsessive cleaning, a penchant for bringing home stuff no one needs, and my disordered eating coupled with the occasional cig, but I guess that shouldn't be a problem, what with being married to me. I hear spouses deal with all kinds of crap from their better halves these days."

Stéphane took a sip of his tea. "You're not scaring me," he said calmly.

Johnny laughed. "That wasn't me scaring you. That was me, giving you the Johnny Weir starter kit."

 

~*~

 

There were media people at the airport, which was exactly the sort of crazy Johnny had feared, but not really expected, considering they were low profile enough to not make any D-Lists. He also desperately wanted to know who'd given out the information about their times of departure – he couldn't believe the leeches were smart enough to deduce it for themselves following a carefully laid plan about hotel cancellation and international flights to Switzerland.

"Good thing I put my celebrity face on this morning," he said to Stéphane out of the corner of his mouth, pushing his huge glasses up his nose.

Stéphane made a sound like he was choking. "I can't believe people are making such a huge deal of this. Are we the only pair of athletes to ever get married at the Olympic Games?"

Johnny pushed his glasses _down_ his nose enough to give him a scalding look.

"All right, stupid question, but look at this! My flight's going in thirty minutes. Did they have to block our taxi? Do they have to block the check-in, for that matter?" Another flash went off right in his face, and Stéphane cut a grimace.

"That's not going to be a good photo," Johnny said with relish.

"There, an opening. Quick, push –"

"That's what she said," Johnny jumped at the chance, smirking when Stéphane gave him a scandalized look. "What? Don't look at me like you haven't heard it all before, Mr. my-French-accent-melts-panties."

"That is going to show up in someone's blog, I just know it," Stéphane said, and then pushed Johnny at the counter so he would stop stressing the flight personnel and check-in.

 

~*~

 

Johnny followed Stéphane to his gate, because his flight wasn't leaving for another hour, and while he usually liked spending the time shopping in the Duty Free zone, this time he elected to stay in close company. He didn't know what instinct made him do it, but he was utterly glad of it when they arrived and sat down to wait for the call only to be immediately accosted by a handful of Asian fans who turned out to be Korean fans of Yu-Na's, departing from a nearby gate.

It wasn't as bad as the media, thankfully. The girls and boys chirped and laughed, like they were a little embarrassed at themselves, at the same time asking for autographs and pictures, and telling them both how wonderful their performances had been. Then they wanted pictures of Johnny and Stéphane together, and attracted enough attention for a few more fans at different Gates to notice what was going on. Soon, a line had formed. Johnny was fairly sure half of the people had no idea who he was, or who Stéphane was, but it was obvious people wanted their second with an Olympic Athlete before the Games would come to their official end, and who were they to refuse.

They had to break it off when the flight attendant at the booth called for the passengers for Stéphane's flight for the third time, and the waiting line of boarding people had vanished down the corridor into the airplane.

"We need to go," Stéphane said, and pointed at his Gate. Johnny joined in, saying, "Sorry guys, it was great meeting everyone, maybe next time."

It took a minute for everyone to get it, in which Johnny fetched Stéphane's carry-on and then they awkwardly stood in front of each other, neither quite knowing how to say good-bye.

"Have a good trip?" Johnny finally said, hating how he made a question out of that. It made him sound young and insecure.

"Thanks. I –I'll call you, all right? Let you know how things go? I have a feeling my team will give me some grief when I let them know about all this, but. It should be fine. I'll do some press, like we discussed." Stéphane pulled in his shoulders, let them fall again. "You have a nice time in L.A., too, okay?"

Johnny nodded. "If the reporters don't go too hard on me, I will do." He glanced to his right, where the Korean girls were crouching behind their seats, cell phones out, taping them. He looked away. He should have known.

Stéphane bit his lip. "I need to go."

"All right."

"I have to – they're going to take off soon, and –"

"Yeah."

"So."

Johnny wanted to repeat the "So", just to be irritating, but Stéphane didn't give him the opportunity, swooping in, and he didn't have much height on Johnny, 'taller', was it, he remembered that one from a while back, they'd been in Canada too, but that hardly mattered now. It was enough of a difference to make their faces fit just right when Stéphane's lips pressed down on his own; their noses didn't collide, and it was a nice kiss, all in all, chaste, lingering for just two, three, four seconds, with Stéphane's hand coming up to his face for a caress, before he let go, and said, "Bye now."

Johnny nodded, mouth open, and watched him go, watched him pull out his ticket and passport for the last check before he'd board.

 

~*~

 

 **Part 3**

 

Stéphane had been to Johnny's apartment before, in those few months in the summer of 2008 when they'd trained together. It hadn't been as dramatic as everyone had made it seem; frankly they'd been adult enough at that point to just keep out of each other's way when it came to territorial instincts either of them might have been having. And they were sort-of friends after all; despite the occasional diva-off they indulged in when the tension got too high. It was hard not to be friends with someone you'd known half your life.

It was different now, Johnny knew. The interior decoration changed with timed predictability – Johnny got bored quickly, in comparison to, say, his brother, who could live in the same stink for years without noticing anything wrong with it. And Paris wasn't there, so everything was in pristine condition and scrubbed within an inch of its life. The carpet looked immaculate.

"Your bedroom still looks like it sprang right out of a Disney catalogue, though," Stéphane snarked, standing in the doorway to Johnny's room, looking in.

Johnny had the urge to slam the door shut on his fingers, just to hear him whimper in pain. Sometimes, physical pain was better than anything words could inflict. "It's a fairytale motif," he said snottily.

"Yeah," Stéphane breathed in French. "The question is, which one?"

"I heard that," Johnny said. "Now, would you stop standing around uselessly, and put your stuff away? It's making me twitchy."

"Of course it is." Stéphane gave him a long-suffering look and started dragging his bags into his room.

To his credit, there were just four of them, along with his two suitcases, and an extra sports bag for his basic figure skating gear. Johnny had no idea how he'd managed. He'd be staying for months. Johnny wouldn't have lasted with that a _week_.

Stéphane must have noticed his incredulous look, because when he came for his second suitcase, he stopped, and said, "I decided if I was already in one of the most fashion-forward cities on the planet, I might as well splurge and get myself a new wardrobe. My federation was most generous after my decision to participate at the Olympics one more time."

"Does the marriage extend to a sharing of goods?" Johnny asked, poking the skating bag with his foot.

Stéphane gave him a considering look. "I guess I should show myself grateful that you didn't make me fight for the room... never mind that you're so scared of Galina, it probably wasn't even for my benefit."

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "I am not scared enough of her to not throw you out on your ass if you don't stop baiting me."

Stéphane waved him off. "I'll make you a deal. Show me around the best shops and get me discounts – we can play off my adorable Swiss-ness for that, if you wish – and I might be willing to make you presents if you were to point me in the right direction."

"You make me sound like a charity case."

"You can always think of it as payment until the rent money comes in," Stéphane said, not without adding, under his breath, "You do make yourself sound like a charity case enough, for your info."

"Hey," Johnny warned. "Money is a touchy subject around here."

"That's because you have no boundaries," Stéphane said. "And no, we're not going to go on about this, I'm hungry. What's for dinner?"

Johnny sniffed. "I don't know what you are having for dinner, but I'm having yogurt, half a cantaloupe and then I'm going to bed."

Stéphane's eyebrows rose. "You're not hungry?"

"I'm ravenous. A fat ass doesn't look good in my onesie, though." He smirked. "I begin to understand why you don't ever wear onesies."

"Says the guy who goes to bed hungry, while I am going to make myself a veggie pizza and vanilla pudding for dessert." Stéphane didn't seem bothered at all about the fact that Johnny almost choked to death with jealousy. "You'll be glad to know I stocked up your fridge."

"You. Did. Not," Johnny said.

"Sure did. If you think I'm going to live on yogurt and one potato a day, you've gone insane."

"You – you can't do that, it's my fridge, and it's supposed to be empty so I don't get tempted by delicious food, and, no. Take your – your forbidden fruits, and store them in your room, for all I care. This is insane, how am I going to stay on my diet if you're constantly waving – vanilla pudding? The last time I had vanilla pudding, I was in eight grade, and had gotten my wisdom teeth pulled!"

Stéphane gave him a pitying look. It vanished as quickly as it had popped up, and Stéphane shrugged. "My food's staying in the fridge. And the pantry."

"I don't have a pantry."

"You do now."

"I hate you."

"We can always work it off together," Stéphane suggested, and _that_ sent Johnny off in a blushing fit, it was completely unfair. "I meant working out," Stéphane corrected himself when he noticed Johnny's spluttering, and he reddened a little himself. "Go jogging."

"I know!"

"Good."

"Good."

Johnny rubbed his cheeks and willed himself to stop emitting heat like an oven. "I hate working out," he then said, to not one in particular.

Stéphane rolled his eyes and walked past him into the kitchen. "Eat your yogurt then, and stop fighting with me. I feel like we're an old married couple, and it's barely been two weeks."

Johnny stuck out his tongue, but only at Stéphane's back, because he knew he was facing charges of childishness if he did it to his face. Then he considered his options. Stéphane was supposed to be a good cook. He hadn't had a proper meal in a week, since travelling with Tara meant salad and water, because he didn't want to look like he ate more than her. And maybe he could deal with working out if he had company. Plus, he'd have more of Stéphane's ass to ogle. It could turn out to be a win-win situation, really.

"Fine," he gave in, and slowly snuck into the kitchen, sitting down at the table to watch Stéphane work his magic. "I'm giving in. This time. But you're responsible for waking me up tomorrow so we can work this off. And if I get fat, Galina's kicking your ass, not mine."

"Fair enough," Stéphane said, bowl in hand, ingredients for the pizza dough standing in front of Johnny. "But if you're eating, you're helping. There are tomatoes in that bag, onions over there – yes, Johnny, onions. Unless you're planning to go out tonight, I don't see where the problem is?"

Johnny scowled. "I hate onions."

Stéphane gave him a sweet smile. "This is how much I don't care right now."

And then he proceeded to order Johnny around like a simple slave boy, and after a while, Johnny discovered that he was not completely averse to this. Especially when he got to reach around Stéphane to steal his knife, or bully him into leaving off the onions, and put olives on the pizza instead.

 

~*~

 

Working out together became a constant, much to Johnny's surprise. One week into their mutually beneficial agreement of Stéphane taking over the cooking chores while Johnny kept up with the cleaning, Johnny found that a daily jog around the neighborhood made him feel a lot more awake in the mornings, and he even stopped getting out of breath after ten minutes. Galina didn't comment, but she stopped looking like she was going to murder him whenever he joked about Stéphane's culinary skills.

Johnny was fairly sure the key element to their successful marriage was that they didn't see each other much. He was doing New York press now, making the media circuit; he went to practice once a day, either in the mornings or in the afternoons. Beginning of March, he declared officially that he wasn't going to Worlds. No one was surprised. Stéphane just rolled his eyes at him, as he did.

They'd both signed on for Kings on Ice, and Stéphane was off for days at a time, exploring the city or skating, keeping in shape, since he was scheduled to appear on Thin Ice with Shizuka. They did go shopping together on multiple occasions, and Johnny snagged himself a beautiful leather jacket and new shoes, while Stéphane filled up the closed that had been vacant until recently.

He'd not expected the favorite time of his day to become the evenings. There were always those two or three hours which they spent together, in Johnny's living room, sitting side-by-side on Johnny's couch, either surfing the internet, showing each other funny videos on YouTube, or watching movies or TV shows. Johnny had been right; they had a lot in common. They shared a sense of humor, they were both saps for romantic comedies, especially the deep, foreign (French) kind.

Tuesday became Disney day. Stéphane made fun of him when Johnny first picked 'Lady and the tramp' at the DVD rental place down the street, but then Johnny found out Stéphane's favorite movie, when he was a kid, had been 'Beauty and the Beast', and that was just so much worse.

"At least mine's a timeless classic," Stéphane said one evening, "and it has a long and proud tradition in French literature. Yours is pure sap." They had Bambi running on the TV screen, but they'd both seen it so many times that taking up an old discussion seemed more fun at this point.

"It's the same story," Johnny sniffed. "The characters are different, but the theme is always 'pretty girl meets boy below her standards and falls in love with his inner qualities'. At least mine's a little realistic. Yours has _a magical beast_ in it."

Stéphane gave him a long look. "Yours has talking dogs," he said.

Johnny hit his thigh. "Not the point. They're metaphors for humans. You can't make a metaphor out of the beast that turns into Prince Charming, that's just _stupid_ -"

"Not stupider than assuming dogs are like humans –"

"And anyway, you know that in real life, the beautiful people would never let themselves fall for ugly people, because let's face it, if you do, you're stuck with them forever. They certainly won't turn pretty all of a sudden."

Stéphane narrowed his eyes. "That is so not the point of the movie. Also, dogs don't eat spaghetti."

"You bet they do."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do."

"Look, Bambi's mommy is about the get killed."

The living room plunged in silence as they watched the scene, tearing up while sad music overshadowed the tragedy.

"So sad," Stéphane sighed when it was over, wiping the corner of his eyes.

"Uh-huh," Johnny sniffled into his cover, shuffling closer so that Stéphane would be warm at his side.

"You want a tissue?" Stéphane asked, grabbing for the box on the table.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, me too."

 

~*~

 

It was almost midnight by the time the movie was over and they both uncurled beneath the covers that had kept them warm. Johnny stretched his limbs, almost drawing back into the cocoon of warmth when the cold night air hit his pyjama-clad legs.

"Bed," he mumbled, sleepy, and pulled until Stéphane moved off of him and to the side with a groan. "Seriously. Do we have to get up tomorrow?"

"Wednesday," Stéphane said. "I've got afternoon practice." He yawned.

"Fuck," Johnny said. "That means I've got morning. 'm not getting up."

Stéphane half-giggled. "You so are. You're a scaredy-cat. You'll be out of bed when you hear Galina's whip crack."

"Shut up." Johnny yawned. Stéphane yawned again, and Johnny felt another yawn coming on, forcing it down. "Ugh, we need to stop watching movies so late." He got up finally, pulled the cover around himself to preserve some warmth, and was glad he'd showered before they'd sat down to watch. Now he just had to slip into bed and into sweet dreams.

Stéphane steadied him when he half-fell over the coffee table, and snickered at him. "You're not even drunk," he said.

"Next time," Johnny promised. "I got the best Chardonnay for my birthday last year; hidden away, so Paris wouldn't get at it. Can't appreciate it for anything but the buzz afterwards, savage that he is..." He yawned.

Stéphane laughed again. "Next time," he agreed. "Promise I'll appreciate it all over."

"Knew you would," Johnny heard himself say, and willed himself to shut up. He stopped at the door to his room, hand on the doorway. Stéphane was looking at him strangely, eyes flickering down to Johnny's mouth and then back up to meet his gaze. Johnny remembered that kiss at the airport suddenly, vividly, in all its facets, and wondered why they'd never mentioned it, why they'd never talked about that, that kiss. He didn't know if he wanted to. He liked Stéphane. He liked watching Stéphane's ass, a lot. It was just a kiss. They were married, after all.

The thought made him laugh, a short bark of a laugh, too loud in the silence.

Stéphane blinked. "What?"

"Just, remembered why you're here," Johnny told him. "I almost forgot."

Stéphane gave him a gentle smile, granting him that one, possibly because he was dizzy and tired and didn't know what he was saying. "Good night, Johnny," he said, and touched Johnny's hand before receding into his own bedroom. Just that, nothing more, and Johnny closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Night," he muttered into the air, turned and slipped into bed quietly. He didn't fall asleep immediately, thinking about that night after the free skate instead, and he remembered, of course he did, because he never suffered memory blackouts, no matter how drunk he was.

He remembered kissing Stéphane, long and hard, like he needed to prove something, fucking his mouth with his tongue. He remembered more drinks, another round of vodka shots, and Stéphane grinning when Johnny was close to giving up but didn't want to, because he was not about to let a non-Russian beat him at his own drinking game. He remembered, blurrily, as they made their way down the streets, the four of them, Stéphane singing Sugababes and Britney Spears songs at full volume.

He remembered pulling Stéphane down into bed after they stumbled into the hotel room, giggling and laughing, and holding hands, and then climbing on top of him, spreading him out, taking off his clothes, one piece after another. "People are going to kill us," he remembered saying giddily, like that was a good thing, and he remembered the rush in his chest when he'd thought about being _bad_ , for once in his life, not following the rules, just doing what felt good.

He remembered finding lube and condoms in his purse, and more condoms in Stéphane's jeans, and he remembered Stéphane taking off his clothes, unbuttoning pants with his teeth as his breath ghosted over Johnny's groin. He remembered sliding on top of Stéphane, for the second time that night, and then settling on their sides, pressing behind him, fingers first, slicking him up, before sliding inside, fucking him, for hours, or what felt like hours, before he came, and Stéphane came, first, actually, pull of fingers and hands, playing him like a harp.

He remembered how good it had felt, to have sex again, after a dry spell since the days of the Dark Age. He remembered how good Stéphane had felt around him, as he pushed into him, over and over, that rhythm, glad he hadn't forgotten how it worked, glad he lasted as long as he did, glad his orgasm hit him hard and unprepared, and built and built until he saw stars, and not much else.

Johnny jerked off perfunctorily, images flooding his mind, and imagined what they could do, what they would do, maybe, imagined kissing and kissing until they ran out of breath, before they made love, and it worked, better than he'd thought, until he came, and then he felt a little bad for doing this with Stéphane just one room away.

He fell asleep quickly anyway.

 

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

Stéphane had been to Johnny's apartment before, in those few months in the summer of 2008 when they'd trained together. It hadn't been as dramatic as everyone had made it seem; frankly they'd been adult enough at that point to just keep out of each other's way when it came to territorial instincts either of them might have been having. And they were sort-of friends after all; despite the occasional diva-off they indulged in when the tension got too high. It was hard not to be friends with someone you'd known half your life.

It was different now, Johnny knew. The interior decoration changed with timed predictability – Johnny got bored quickly, in comparison to, say, his brother, who could live in the same stink for years without noticing anything wrong with it. And Paris wasn't there, so everything was in pristine condition and scrubbed within an inch of its life. The carpet looked immaculate.

"Your bedroom still looks like it sprang right out of a Disney catalogue, though," Stéphane snarked, standing in the doorway to Johnny's room, looking in.

Johnny had the urge to slam the door shut on his fingers, just to hear him whimper in pain. Sometimes, physical pain was better than anything words could inflict. "It's a fairytale motif," he said snottily.

"Yeah," Stéphane breathed in French. "The question is, which one?"

"I heard that," Johnny said. "Now, would you stop standing around uselessly, and put your stuff away? It's making me twitchy."

"Of course it is." Stéphane gave him a long-suffering look and started dragging his bags into his room.

To his credit, there were just four of them, along with his two suitcases, and an extra sports bag for his basic figure skating gear. Johnny had no idea how he'd managed. He'd be staying for months. Johnny wouldn't have lasted with that a _week_.

Stéphane must have noticed his incredulous look, because when he came for his second suitcase, he stopped, and said, "I decided if I was already in one of the most fashion-forward cities on the planet, I might as well splurge and get myself a new wardrobe. My federation was most generous after my decision to participate at the Olympics one more time."

"Does the marriage extend to a sharing of goods?" Johnny asked, poking the skating bag with his foot.

Stéphane gave him a considering look. "I guess I should show myself grateful that you didn't make me fight for the room... never mind that you're so scared of Galina, it probably wasn't even for my benefit."

Johnny narrowed his eyes. "I am not scared enough of her to not throw you out on your ass if you don't stop baiting me."

Stéphane waved him off. "I'll make you a deal. Show me around the best shops and get me discounts – we can play off my adorable Swiss-ness for that, if you wish – and I might be willing to make you presents if you were to point me in the right direction."

"You make me sound like a charity case."

"You can always think of it as payment until the rent money comes in," Stéphane said, not without adding, under his breath, "You do make yourself sound like a charity case enough, for your info."

"Hey," Johnny warned. "Money is a touchy subject around here."

"That's because you have no boundaries," Stéphane said. "And no, we're not going to go on about this, I'm hungry. What's for dinner?"

Johnny sniffed. "I don't know what you are having for dinner, but I'm having yogurt, half a cantaloupe and then I'm going to bed."

Stéphane's eyebrows rose. "You're not hungry?"

"I'm ravenous. A fat ass doesn't look good in my onesie, though." He smirked. "I begin to understand why you don't ever wear onesies."

"Says the guy who goes to bed hungry, while I am going to make myself a veggie pizza and vanilla pudding for dessert." Stéphane didn't seem bothered at all about the fact that Johnny almost choked to death with jealousy. "You'll be glad to know I stocked up your fridge."

"You. Did. Not," Johnny said.

"Sure did. If you think I'm going to live on yogurt and one potato a day, you've gone insane."

"You – you can't do that, it's my fridge, and it's supposed to be empty so I don't get tempted by delicious food, and, no. Take your – your forbidden fruits, and store them in your room, for all I care. This is insane, how am I going to stay on my diet if you're constantly waving – vanilla pudding? The last time I had vanilla pudding, I was in eight grade, and had gotten my wisdom teeth pulled!"

Stéphane gave him a pitying look. It vanished as quickly as it had popped up, and Stéphane shrugged. "My food's staying in the fridge. And the pantry."

"I don't have a pantry."

"You do now."

"I hate you."

"We can always work it off together," Stéphane suggested, and _that_ sent Johnny off in a blushing fit, it was completely unfair. "I meant working out," Stéphane corrected himself when he noticed Johnny's spluttering, and he reddened a little himself. "Go jogging."

"I know!"

"Good."

"Good."

Johnny rubbed his cheeks and willed himself to stop emitting heat like an oven. "I hate working out," he then said, to not one in particular.

Stéphane rolled his eyes and walked past him into the kitchen. "Eat your yogurt then, and stop fighting with me. I feel like we're an old married couple, and it's barely been two weeks."

Johnny stuck out his tongue, but only at Stéphane's back, because he knew he was facing charges of childishness if he did it to his face. Then he considered his options. Stéphane was supposed to be a good cook. He hadn't had a proper meal in a week, since travelling with Tara meant salad and water, because he didn't want to look like he ate more than her. And maybe he could deal with working out if he had company. Plus, he'd have more of Stéphane's ass to ogle. It could turn out to be a win-win situation, really.

"Fine," he gave in, and slowly snuck into the kitchen, sitting down at the table to watch Stéphane work his magic. "I'm giving in. This time. But you're responsible for waking me up tomorrow so we can work this off. And if I get fat, Galina's kicking your ass, not mine."

"Fair enough," Stéphane said, bowl in hand, ingredients for the pizza dough standing in front of Johnny. "But if you're eating, you're helping. There are tomatoes in that bag, onions over there – yes, Johnny, onions. Unless you're planning to go out tonight, I don't see where the problem is?"

Johnny scowled. "I hate onions."

Stéphane gave him a sweet smile. "This is how much I don't care right now."

And then he proceeded to order Johnny around like a simple slave boy, and after a while, Johnny discovered that he was not completely averse to this. Especially when he got to reach around Stéphane to steal his knife, or bully him into leaving off the onions, and put olives on the pizza instead.

 

~*~

 

Working out together became a constant, much to Johnny's surprise. One week into their mutually beneficial agreement of Stéphane taking over the cooking chores while Johnny kept up with the cleaning, Johnny found that a daily jog around the neighborhood made him feel a lot more awake in the mornings, and he even stopped getting out of breath after ten minutes. Galina didn't comment, but she stopped looking like she was going to murder him whenever he joked about Stéphane's culinary skills.

Johnny was fairly sure the key element to their successful marriage was that they didn't see each other much. He was doing New York press now, making the media circuit; he went to practice once a day, either in the mornings or in the afternoons. Beginning of March, he declared officially that he wasn't going to Worlds. No one was surprised. Stéphane just rolled his eyes at him, as he did.

They'd both signed on for Kings on Ice, and Stéphane was off for days at a time, exploring the city or skating, keeping in shape, since he was scheduled to appear on Thin Ice with Shizuka. They did go shopping together on multiple occasions, and Johnny snagged himself a beautiful leather jacket and new shoes, while Stéphane filled up the closed that had been vacant until recently.

He'd not expected the favorite time of his day to become the evenings. There were always those two or three hours which they spent together, in Johnny's living room, sitting side-by-side on Johnny's couch, either surfing the internet, showing each other funny videos on YouTube, or watching movies or TV shows. Johnny had been right; they had a lot in common. They shared a sense of humor, they were both saps for romantic comedies, especially the deep, foreign (French) kind.

Tuesday became Disney day. Stéphane made fun of him when Johnny first picked 'Lady and the tramp' at the DVD rental place down the street, but then Johnny found out Stéphane's favorite movie, when he was a kid, had been 'Beauty and the Beast', and that was just so much worse.

"At least mine's a timeless classic," Stéphane said one evening, "and it has a long and proud tradition in French literature. Yours is pure sap." They had Bambi running on the TV screen, but they'd both seen it so many times that taking up an old discussion seemed more fun at this point.

"It's the same story," Johnny sniffed. "The characters are different, but the theme is always 'pretty girl meets boy below her standards and falls in love with his inner qualities'. At least mine's a little realistic. Yours has _a magical beast_ in it."

Stéphane gave him a long look. "Yours has talking dogs," he said.

Johnny hit his thigh. "Not the point. They're metaphors for humans. You can't make a metaphor out of the beast that turns into Prince Charming, that's just _stupid_ -"

"Not stupider than assuming dogs are like humans –"

"And anyway, you know that in real life, the beautiful people would never let themselves fall for ugly people, because let's face it, if you do, you're stuck with them forever. They certainly won't turn pretty all of a sudden."

Stéphane narrowed his eyes. "That is so not the point of the movie. Also, dogs don't eat spaghetti."

"You bet they do."

"No, they don't."

"Yes, they do."

"Look, Bambi's mommy is about the get killed."

The living room plunged in silence as they watched the scene, tearing up while sad music overshadowed the tragedy.

"So sad," Stéphane sighed when it was over, wiping the corner of his eyes.

"Uh-huh," Johnny sniffled into his cover, shuffling closer so that Stéphane would be warm at his side.

"You want a tissue?" Stéphane asked, grabbing for the box on the table.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, me too."

 

~*~

 

It was almost midnight by the time the movie was over and they both uncurled beneath the covers that had kept them warm. Johnny stretched his limbs, almost drawing back into the cocoon of warmth when the cold night air hit his pyjama-clad legs.

"Bed," he mumbled, sleepy, and pulled until Stéphane moved off of him and to the side with a groan. "Seriously. Do we have to get up tomorrow?"

"Wednesday," Stéphane said. "I've got afternoon practice." He yawned.

"Fuck," Johnny said. "That means I've got morning. 'm not getting up."

Stéphane half-giggled. "You so are. You're a scaredy-cat. You'll be out of bed when you hear Galina's whip crack."

"Shut up." Johnny yawned. Stéphane yawned again, and Johnny felt another yawn coming on, forcing it down. "Ugh, we need to stop watching movies so late." He got up finally, pulled the cover around himself to preserve some warmth, and was glad he'd showered before they'd sat down to watch. Now he just had to slip into bed and into sweet dreams.

Stéphane steadied him when he half-fell over the coffee table, and snickered at him. "You're not even drunk," he said.

"Next time," Johnny promised. "I got the best Chardonnay for my birthday last year; hidden away, so Paris wouldn't get at it. Can't appreciate it for anything but the buzz afterwards, savage that he is..." He yawned.

Stéphane laughed again. "Next time," he agreed. "Promise I'll appreciate it all over."

"Knew you would," Johnny heard himself say, and willed himself to shut up. He stopped at the door to his room, hand on the doorway. Stéphane was looking at him strangely, eyes flickering down to Johnny's mouth and then back up to meet his gaze. Johnny remembered that kiss at the airport suddenly, vividly, in all its facets, and wondered why they'd never mentioned it, why they'd never talked about that, that kiss. He didn't know if he wanted to. He liked Stéphane. He liked watching Stéphane's ass, a lot. It was just a kiss. They were married, after all.

The thought made him laugh, a short bark of a laugh, too loud in the silence.

Stéphane blinked. "What?"

"Just, remembered why you're here," Johnny told him. "I almost forgot."

Stéphane gave him a gentle smile, granting him that one, possibly because he was dizzy and tired and didn't know what he was saying. "Good night, Johnny," he said, and touched Johnny's hand before receding into his own bedroom. Just that, nothing more, and Johnny closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Night," he muttered into the air, turned and slipped into bed quietly. He didn't fall asleep immediately, thinking about that night after the free skate instead, and he remembered, of course he did, because he never suffered memory blackouts, no matter how drunk he was.

He remembered kissing Stéphane, long and hard, like he needed to prove something, fucking his mouth with his tongue. He remembered more drinks, another round of vodka shots, and Stéphane grinning when Johnny was close to giving up but didn't want to, because he was not about to let a non-Russian beat him at his own drinking game. He remembered, blurrily, as they made their way down the streets, the four of them, Stéphane singing Sugababes and Britney Spears songs at full volume.

He remembered pulling Stéphane down into bed after they stumbled into the hotel room, giggling and laughing, and holding hands, and then climbing on top of him, spreading him out, taking off his clothes, one piece after another. "People are going to kill us," he remembered saying giddily, like that was a good thing, and he remembered the rush in his chest when he'd thought about being _bad_ , for once in his life, not following the rules, just doing what felt good.

He remembered finding lube and condoms in his purse, and more condoms in Stéphane's jeans, and he remembered Stéphane taking off his clothes, unbuttoning pants with his teeth as his breath ghosted over Johnny's groin. He remembered sliding on top of Stéphane, for the second time that night, and then settling on their sides, pressing behind him, fingers first, slicking him up, before sliding inside, fucking him, for hours, or what felt like hours, before he came, and Stéphane came, first, actually, pull of fingers and hands, playing him like a harp.

He remembered how good it had felt, to have sex again, after a dry spell since the days of the Dark Age. He remembered how good Stéphane had felt around him, as he pushed into him, over and over, that rhythm, glad he hadn't forgotten how it worked, glad he lasted as long as he did, glad his orgasm hit him hard and unprepared, and built and built until he saw stars, and not much else.

Johnny jerked off perfunctorily, images flooding his mind, and imagined what they could do, what they would do, maybe, imagined kissing and kissing until they ran out of breath, before they made love, and it worked, better than he'd thought, until he came, and then he felt a little bad for doing this with Stéphane just one room away.

He fell asleep quickly anyway.

 

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

March ended on an unsatisfactory note. Johnny's 'Bad Romance' program didn't get the rave reviews he'd been expecting. Stéphane finished in third place on Thin Ice. He'd expected to win. Stéphane always expected to win; it was one of the things that made him insufferable.

It was surprising how they hadn't fought until this point aside from minor scuffles, but the evening before they were scheduled to leave for Russia, the tension that had been building for the past week broke. It wasn't a fight of epic proportions like Johnny had had with Paris back when they'd lived together, but it wasn't their most comfortable moment either.

It wasn't even about anything specific: Stéphane hadn't taken out the trash like Johnny had asked him to. Johnny always re-shelved the groceries Stéphane bought so that Stéphane couldn't find them afterwards when he needed them. Did Johnny always have to run the vacuum when Stéphane wanted some peace and quiet to concentrate on his book?

By the time they ran out of steam, Johnny was out of breath from yelling, and Stéphane had switched to French, making his tirades far less decipherable, standing in one corner of the living room with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Maybe it's time I went back home for a while," Stéphane said when Johnny got around to accusing him of always hogging his coaches when Johnny needed them for something. "You're being an ass."

"You're not exactly a stellar example of cooperation and mutual respect yourself," Johnny replied scathingly. "But I agree. Some time apart will do us good."

"I'll be touring Europe all April anyway," Stéphane said. "That should be a good excuse for whoever you need to lie to."

"Oh, that was _low_ ," Johnny said. "You're lying about it as much as I am."

"At least I'm not appearing on every talk show across the US," Stéphane said. "Lying as much as you is pretty much impossible at this point."

"I can't help it when they all ask about it! I want them to talk about skating and fashion, too, but for now, it's still news, so don't you go accusing me of whoring out our marriage for free publicity and ratings!"

"I'm not, all right?" Stéphane put up his hands. "I'm not saying that. I'm just saying, maybe if you spent less time doing talk shows, and more time, I don't know, practicing, your exhibition program would have gotten better reviews."

"And maybe if you didn't spend all your time fucking your way through the New York club scene, you'd have placed higher than third –"

Stéphane's eyebrows went up at that, a look of hurt in his eyes, before he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming his door behind himself. He left Johnny by himself in the living room, seething, and at the same time feeling guilty for having said that; they both knew it wasn't true. Neither of them could afford fucking someone who might go to the media with an account of a heated night of passion. Stéphane had even curbed his bar-hopping a few weeks ago after a memo from Tara that he shouldn't go out on his own so much.

"Jesus," Johnny said to the wall and went to his room to finish packing. He had a feeling the next few days were going to be far less fun than he'd hoped.

 

~*~

 

He was surprised when the next morning Stéphane didn't show a sign of a grudge. They had to get up at five to catch their flight overseas, and when Johnny slinked out of the bathroom, ready to just call a cab and sleep all the way from here to St. Petersburg, he found Stéphane already on his feet, making coffee, handing him a scone with apple butter and a cup of steaming hot beverage.

"You're a god," he couldn't help but breathe as he took a sip and bit into the scone. He wasn't hungry, but he knew he would be in two hours, and the scone would go dry and tasteless, while right now it was the most delicious thing he'd ever had in his mouth.

Stéphane looked smug before he turned back to his own cup. "I called the cab for half past," he said. "That should get us to the airport in time to check in. Are your bags in the hallway?"

Johnny nodded. He'd pulled them along when he'd left his room after his alarm had woken him up. "How are you so awake at this hour?" he mumbled and tried hard not to let his eyes fall shut again. His head fell forward and he rested his cheek on the cool tabletop.

"Slept more than you in the past few days, I guess," Stéphane said. There was a soft note in his voice from which Johnny could tell he was forgiven for yesterday. He felt a little ashamed because he hadn't even apologized.

Stéphane got up from his seat and moved around while Johnny rested, putting away the coffee and cream, cleaning the crumbs off the table. Johnny was just about to let his eyes close, sleep gently beckoning, when Stéphane's fingers touched his hair and he said, "Don't fall back asleep. We need to get going."

Johnny grumbled.

"You can sleep on the plane."

"Never sleep well on planes," Johnny protested. He tried hard not to move so that Stéphane's hand wouldn't leave the back of his neck where it was resting heavily. It was warm and comforting and he wanted Stéphane to be caressing the back of his neck forever.

"The faster we're in St. Petersburg, the faster the show's over and the faster you're getting rid of me," Stéphane reminded him.

Johnny didn't want to be rid of Stéphane, suddenly. Yesterday, sure, the day before that even, he'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone finally. He'd had enough of living together in a relationship that wasn't really one, faking it every single day, pretending like he didn't care - or forgetting that he should pretend that, and showing how much he cared. He just wanted to go back to bed now, pull Stéphane with him and bury underneath the covers together, like the few times they'd done that, like they'd woken up before, curled up together with Stéphane's arms around him.

"Johnny," Stéphane said. "Up, up, up." His hand left Johnny's neck, and then there were fingers underneath his armpits, and Stéphane was using his most ferocious weapon on him. It was mean and unfair, and Johnny scrambled away like he'd been bitten, shrieking as Stéphane tickled his sides, trying hard not to fall off his chair on the other side.

"I hate you," he said, still laughing, and caught his cup in the last moment before it could tip over the edge of the table. He drank the last drops of coffee, hoping it would be enough to keep him awake till they boarded the plane.

"I know," Stéphane said, smiling wryly, and stepped back to leave the kitchen to get their bags ready and down the stairs so they could pack them into the cab quickly.

 

~*~

 

They sat next to each other on the plane, and as soon as they were up in the air, Johnny closed his eyes, exhaustion overtaking his discomfort. He didn't even realize he was leaning to the side until his head touched Stéphane's shoulder and then, it was like he couldn't feel the vibrations of the turbines or the cramped style of his seat, or the overly heavy scent of the perfume from somewhere to his right; a blanket of sleep passed over him and he only woke up when Stéphane gently touched his face, murmuring his name.

"What?" he asked, mouth cotton-dry and sour, and he had to rub his eyes to get the sand out of them. "What's going on, where are we?"

"We're landing for layover," Stéphane said. "You slept the whole flight." He was looking down at Johnny with an amused expression, and held out a bottle of water. "And here I thought you couldn't sleep on planes."

"I was tired," Johnny said, taking a swallow, and nudged Stéphane's shoulder. "I was!"

"Sure. And my shoulder's stiff, because your head is so heavy."

"Full of brain," Johnny said. He glanced at Stéphane's shoulder, looked around, then decided to just screw it, so what if someone was watching, they were married now. There had to be an upside to all of this. So he put his hands on Stéphane's shoulder and started kneading.

Stéphane stared for a second before Johnny hit a knot and then he flinched back, mouth opening in both pain and pleasure. "Not fair," he whimpered.

Johnny just smiled, pressing his thumb in harder. Stéphane would thank him for this later. The plane continued to rumble along its landing course.

 

~*~

 

Russia was sunny and beautiful. The trip from the airport to the city was short, and the hotel they checked into a mix of contemporary architecture and the charms of old St. Petersburg. Johnny immediately felt better.

The day passed in a blur of excitement and meeting with new and old friends; he went shopping, to the ballet, had dinner in a stunningly expensive restaurant, and he didn't even mind when everyone insisted on photographing Stéphane and him together, which they did a lot.

They had also found out upon arrival that they shared a hotel suite – tour organizers didn't pay attention to little facts like the 'fake' before a marriage, apparently. And then, whenever one of them got invited to join for any sort of activity, it was with a tacked-on, "Feel free to bring your husband."

"How do people deal with this?" Johnny asked him after a whole evening of the same. "It's insane. It's like we're no longer two separate people. How did I never notice this about married people?"

"Maybe it's just less obvious and annoying when you're not on the other end of it," Stéphane said. "I for one am glad that you'll be flying back to the US in a few days because if I have to hear one more time how cute we look together, I'm going to throw up."

"We do sort of look cute together," Johnny teased.

Stéphane threw a pillow at him, grabbed his pyjamas and vanished into the bathroom.

The shower didn't turn on immediately, so Johnny walked up to the door and leaned against it lightly, listening to Stéphane brush his teeth. "Are you going to come back as soon as you're done touring Europe?" he heard himself ask, and was glad that his tone of voice didn't betray how badly he wanted that. It was horrible how used he was to having Stéphane around all the time now.

Stéphane made a gurgling sound and said, "I was thinking I might spend some time with my family." He didn't sound sure. "You said people would stop caring soon about this. Maybe it'll be over faster if I'm not there all the time."

"Oh." Johnny bit his lip, trying hard not to show his disappointment.

"Did you say something?"

"No, nothing."

Stéphane came back to the bathroom door and opened it, giving Johnny a curious look. He'd slipped off his shirt and was bare-chested, just his jeans hugging his butt tightly. "You disagree?" he asked.

"I guess not. I mean, it… sounds like a good idea."

"You don't look like you think it's a good idea."

"No, it's fine. I was just." He took a deep breath. "I got an email from the team saying that they want to continue for another season with BGJW? And they asked if they could get some footage of our home. Together."

Stéphane blinked. "Really? When was that?"

"Just… recently?" Johnny cleared his throat. "I mean. Just before we left. I didn't want to bring it up before. We weren't on such good terms – Christ, will you put something on, I can't concentrate like this." He rubbed his forehead, turning around to go rummage in the closet for his own night clothes.

"I was about to have a shower," Stéphane reminded him. "You decided to bring it up while I was in the bathroom."

"I'm retracting the discussion," Johnny said.

Stéphane sighed. "Fine." The door closed again and he turned the lock this time. A minute later, the sound of the water spray echoed through the walls.

Johnny waited for just a second, then he attacked his laptop. This was going to take some serious maneuvering, but the guys owed him more than just one favor, so. Nothing but hoping that Stéphane wouldn't find out; and it wasn't a real lie anyway. He _had_ gotten that inquiry about whether it might be possible to make part of the second season about their relationship and their segue into regular life. He'd just said no, at that time.

He took his shower once Stéphane was done and found him sitting on their bed afterwards, when Johnny came back, hair damp, dripping onto his top.

"I'm all dressed," Stéphane said, as if it needed pointing out. "Care to tell me what's going on now?"

Johnny sat down on the other end of the bed, even though Stéphane was sitting on the side Johnny normally slept on. He wasn't going to fight about that now. He was going to be zen about it and let it go.

"Just what I said," he said. "They want to come in, film us, like they did back when Paris and I were still living together. Makes for good TV, apparently. It's not even certain yet, they don't know if they're getting the green light for a second season at all, seeing as the show was supposed to be about my journey to the Olympics. But the show is titled after me, and they're making money."

"So they want more."

Johnny inclined his head.

"What exactly do they want to see?"

"Not – you know." Johnny felt himself flush. "Nothing personal or - just how we hang out, the way we act together. A day in the life of, something like that? They'll have more fun following us around as we go shoe-shopping, and I think they know it."

"Won't that only keep up the charade, though?" Stéphane asked. "I thought the plan was to make people forget."

Johnny shrugged. "It's what they want."

"Ah."

"We don't actually have to say yes, I can tell them no if you don't want to."

"You want to?" Stéphane seemed surprised.

"I guess I don't mind? And it'll make our fans happy. It'll keep people interested."

"So you are whoring out the marriage for free publicity and ratings – no, I'm teasing, don't get all pissy." Stéphane snorted. "I'll think about it, how's that? Do we have a script or something? If we plan carefully, not much can go wrong. And I know it'll make your PR people happy. And your fans."

"We could get it over with when you get back from touring," Johnny proposed. "You don't have any shows in May, right? And I'll be trying to get in contact with people from FIT, try the college experience, which is another angle they might like to get on camera."

"All right," Stéphane agreed. "We'll see." He gave Johnny a wide smile. "Now, though, you should tell me more about how distracting I am when I'm naked."

"Oh, shut up," Johnny said, face flaming. "You're way too big-headed as it is, no way am I going to build up your ego any more."

"You do know we have to sleep in the same bed tonight, right?" Stéphane kept on teasing. "I don't want you to be unable to restrain yourself this close to me, or, god forgive, be unable to sleep."

"You are going to sleep on the floor in a minute, if you don't stop it," Johnny warned him. "I'm not above claiming a marital spat to get you out of the room."

"All right, all right, I'm giving up." Stéphane crawled underneath the covers and laid down on his back. He waited until Johnny had turned off the lights before he turned onto his side. Johnny followed suit, and then they were on eye-level, almost too close for comfort, both their breathing evening out. It was very hot in the room, and Johnny had to take one deep breath to stop the heat from climbing to his face.

"So If I were to take off my shirt now –"

Johnny kicked him under the covers. "You never give up, do you?"

Stéphane snickered into his pillow. It was a sound Johnny remembered from many years of friendship, years of competition and hanging out together at skating venues. It made it easier to let go of the strange sensations that were churning in his belly, remind himself that they were friends, that it was all right, that he'd slept with boys before without having sex, that there was nothing to this.

"We really are an old married couple," Stéphane cracked up, and Johnny had to snort himself, laughing along, and he had a feeling they wouldn't be going to sleep for a while yet if they kept going like this.

For once, he didn't mind. After all, they hadn't had their movie, and there was more than one way to keep each other entertained.


	5. Chapter 5

Johnny kept very busy in April.

This had nothing at all to do with the fact that Stéphane was on tour and Johnny would have been otherwise sitting at home and pining like a fifties housewife. Not that he wouldn't just love to be on any 'Real Housewives of _insert city here_', but he didn't want to be quite that literal.

They called each other. Johnny would have liked to say that they didn't, but they'd gotten so used to spending time together that after almost a week without more than text messages, he basically couldn't hold out anymore, and, instead of just replying to the text that said, _Leaving Sweden, on my way to Japan :D_ , he pushed the dial button.

"Is everything all right?" Stéphane asked the minute they got connected. Johnny hoped his phone bill wouldn't kill him on arrival.

"Yeah, I just wanted to check in," he said. "What time is it where you are?"

There was a long-ish pause, for a phone conversation, and then Stéphane said, "About six pm. Have you eaten lunch?"

Johnny tried not to sound guilty when he said, "Yes." He hadn't. Well, he had, but Stéphane would never let raspberry yogurt count. Not that he had to know.

Thankfully, Stéphane didn't press for details. "What have you been up to, the last few days?" he asked. He sounded like he was in a car somewhere, driving.

"I found a job," Johnny said. "Signed up for lessons in design and sewing. I'll let you know how that goes."

"Sounds good."

"I had that skating show, too. Got a few more local shows lined up. They don't pay much, but they'll cover the classes, hopefully. How was Sweden?"

"Fun," Stéphane said, and Johnny could hear the smile in his voice. "The Swedish boys took me out for the night. You probably remember how Kristoffer is always up for dancing, and Adrian has just _insane_ taste in nightclubs."

"Yeah. Sounds fun," Johnny said tightly.

"What are you going to do in the next few days while I fly in and out of Japan in a matter of hours?"

Johnny swallowed. "Probably going home to spend some time with my family. Listen, I gotta go. Have a good flight, and don't get too stressed out. I'll call you."

"Johnny –"

Johnny cut him off. Then he went online to book a ticket home, because really, he should have done this weeks ago. He'd been pushing it off for too long, and he was due a long conversation with his parents.

It wasn't easy admitting that he was in love with the guy he'd married (oh, the irony), but he felt a lot better after they knew. Hell, _they_ felt a lot better after they knew, because apparently, his mom had secretly harbored hopes that he'd married for romantic reasons.

"It wasn't all that romantic," he'd said, but she'd just waved her hand and said, "Let me have my illusions."

After that, he spent the next few weeks replaying scenarios in his head in which he cornered Stéphane after he got back from Europe and told him how fucked up everything had become, because he was sort of in love and had been for a while; most of them ended with Stéphane either being madly in love with him back, or belting out of their home in horror, sure he was going to get raped.

Johnny knew he was a bit of a drama queen in his head.

But then, when Stéphane came back, it turned out to be impossible to get the words out. Instead, he talked at length about doing his spring cleaning and how Galina was still slavedriving even though he wasn't even trying to be competitively eligible next season - his exhibition programs had to be perfect, after all -, and about his family, and Easter and asking Stéphane how his touring had been while they ate dinner.

Stéphane was exhausted, but he seemed happy about how the month had gone.

"I think it might have been a mistake to eat out," he said after they'd finished their main course and he put his fork onto his empty plate. "The food was great, but..."

"You want to go and have a good night's sleep?"

Stéphane grinned. "Yeah."

The restaurant, their regular by now, was just a walk away from their apartment, so they leisurely strolled down the street, and Johnny had to stop himself multiple times from just taking Stéphane's hand into his own; it was too familiar, the way he'd done it before sometimes with his boyfriends, the feeling of just taking a walk in comfortable silence.

"So when is the camera crew arriving?" Stéphane said, breaking his thoughts.

"A few days," Johnny said. "Don't worry, they won't be surprising us." He grinned. "You'll have some time to get rest and spend a few days unobserved before they descend upon us."

And that was how it went down.

While Johnny taught little kids how to skate at the rink, helped Galina and Viktor out with Ksenia, and took more classes so FIT wouldn't think he wasn't motivated – he was going to make their program if it killed him –, Stéphane slept, ate, worked out, skated, ate and slept. Johnny didn't ask what he'd been doing on his down-time between shows that had been keeping him up all nights. He didn't want to know.

And then it was only a few more hours till the cameras were due to arrive and they hadn't even changed the set-up of the apartment.

"We don't actually have to move all my stuff into your room," Stéphane said with exaggerated patience when Johnny looked around his room and decided it looked like they were roommates more than actual married people. "I wouldn't live with you in one room even if we were real-married. Your closet has no space for my clothes and shoes and hand-bags!"

"What about the living room?"

"What _about_ the living room? You clean and vacuum and scrub the surfaces every three days. If they're not satisfied with that, they're crazy enough that I don't want them anywhere near myself."

"I meant – there aren't any photographs of us being all couple-y on the walls, and of your parents, and maybe it's _too_ clean, maybe we should put some of your underwear under the couch or something, just to make it more authentic."

"Johnny."

"What?"

"We live like this. Together. It wouldn't change at all if we were having sex."

"It wouldn't?"

Stéphane didn't reply, he just remade his bed one more time and gave Johnny a half-glare. "Stop being so nervous. You weren't like this when Paris was living here, were you?"

"No."

"So they'll know something's up if you act like you're jumping out of your skin."

Johnny gave him an unhappy look. "I just want everything to go okay."

Stéphane stepped over to him and took his shoulders in a light grip. "I know. It's going to be fine. Just act natural. They're not expecting us to have sex in front of the camera. And didn't you tell me yourself most people have been saying they were suspecting that we'd dated even before the whole marriage thing came up?"

Johnny nodded.

"So there you have it." He smiled at Johnny, and after a second, Johnny's lips curled up into an answering smile all on their own. "Relax. They'll film us bickering and we're going to be stuck with the 'old married couple' label for the rest of our lives."

"Yeah, yeah," Johnny said, shrugging off his hands, but couldn't help the laugh at the same time. "This was a bad idea."

"Probably." Stéphane caught his wrist as he was about to turn away. "But we agreed to do it. And who knows, it might turn out fun?"

Johnny barely fought down the impulse to ask what was so fun about pretending to be in love for a few days. Stéphane's fingers were warm, holding his firmly, and his stomach rolled slowly at the memory of his hands caressing Johnny's skin, running up and down his sides to his chest, over his butt. He pulled his hand away and dismissed Stéphane's hurt look. "You should at least lay your pyjamas on my bed, and like. You have picture frames and your laptop, and a few of your books, just scatter them in my room. I can live with a bit of a mess for a few days, I think."

"As long as you _think_ so," Stéphane said dryly, handily ignoring his glare as he picked up the things Johnny had proposed.

At a minute before noon, the doorbell rang. Stéphane didn't even get up from his seat on the couch, watching TV when Johnny opened the door. Then there was hugging and greeting and catching up with David and James and Becca and Timothy and everyone else who was there, because they hadn't seen each other for multiple weeks now, and that was enough time to cover up any awkwardness with chit-chat. Johnny immediately put on his TV persona and Stéphane barely managed to stop him from starting the tour of the apartment before the cameras were even rolling. Johnny felt a wave of heat flood his cheeks when Stéphane stepped behind him, putting an arm around his waist.

"Coffee first," Stéphane said decisively. "And you guys can set up, whatever you need, just yell. In the meantime, someone should maybe fill us in about what we'll be doing today."

And suddenly, everyone was very professional, making propositions and handing out sheets and giving orders, and Johnny looked from Stéphane to David and back to Stéphane and said, "Last time we did this, they were not nearly as prepared."

"Second season, baby," a girl said, passing by while she was scribbling something on her chart. "More money, bigger production, better crew."

"And who are you again?" Johnny asked. He didn't remember her from last season.

"No one you need to know by name," she said cheerfully, and got herself a cup of coffee. "Just stick to the producers and you'll be fine."

Johnny blinked. Stéphane ducked his head, and laughed into his neck.

 

~*~

 

Johnny tried very hard not to be jealous, but after about four hours of filming, he had to admit that Stéphane was a natural at this, maybe even more so than he was himself. He was charming without putting up too much of a front, he spoke his mind but was never rude enough to raise eyebrows. Moms across the world would _love_ him; in between takes, he overheard the camera guys saying that he would charm the mid-west into watching the show if he kept it up.

"Maybe we should call it 'The Stéphane Lambiel Show'," he muttered into his third cup of coffee for the afternoon, and watched as Stéphane made a few of the PAs laugh by pretending to sing into a hairbrush. He probably didn't know it, but the camera was on him, and Johnny hoped a cut of this would end up in the episode.

Amber – whose name he had found out, after all – dropped into the seat next to him and gave him a funny look. "Someone's grouchy," she said, bright and way too knowing.

"Why's he flirting with them?" Johnny heard himself say, and winced at the petulant tone of his voice.

"Maybe because you're sitting here looking dark and gloomy instead of being over there having fun?" she suggested.

"I used to have fun," he said. "Back when this was my show."

"Maybe it's time to get it back, then?" Amber took his coffee away. "Instead of sitting here, sulking, you could be the one flirting. I saw your first season. No need to get shy now. Now go and get ready for the next take." She shuffled some papers, and handed him one. "You'll be cooking dinner together. I hear Lambiel's a great cook." She gave Johnny a smirk. "Wonder if he can keep that up when he's distracted."

And so it was on.

Apparently, the crew had found some ancient video of Stéphane making pancakes and had decided that a repeat of that experiment would be interesting for the audience. Johnny couldn't exactly protest because he had seen Stéphane at his most manic, flipping pancakes at world record heights (and letting them fall on the floor, which was fine since their floors were impeccably clean).

The instructions were, "Act like you do when you eat dinner together," which of course Johnny took the liberty to misinterpret, Amber's words fresh in mind. When Stéphane asked him to get the ingredients, Johnny went for the flour in the high shelf just as Stéphane was standing underneath it, pressing close against his back to reach it. He stumbled into Stéphane when he leaned over to get the pan, and slithered underneath his arm to get the eggs when Stéphane was by the fridge to get the butter, brushing up against him suggestively.

Stéphane got the hint. He tilted his head to the side, gave Johnny a considering look, and then smiled wryly and said, "All right. If that's how you want to play it." And then he accidentally blew some flour into Johnny's face while filling up the bowl.

Johnny opened his mouth in a gasp. "You did not just do that," he said.

"Sorry, honey," Stéphane said with a wide smile. "Can you maybe wipe that off the floor? I know how you hate leaving a mess."

"I'm wiping the floor later," Johnny said. "With you."

"It's just a bit of flour," Stéphane said. "No one's died from it yet, see?" And then he let go of the bowl into which he'd just beaten some eggs, and pulled Johnny close, gently running his thumb down his cheek. "There."

Johnny stared up at him, spell-bound for a blink, then shook himself free with narrowed eyes, and he was just about to reply when Stéphane pressed his lips against Johnny's in a quick kiss. "Be good and get me some milk?"

"'m not your slaveboy," Johnny protested, but he did go to get the milk. After all, he didn't want to end up dinnerless. He licked his lips tentatively as he returned, and saw Stéphane's gaze drop to where his tongue flicked out. Their eyes locked, and Johnny was just about to say something inappropriate and funny (he would have thought of something!), but Stéphane picked that moment to look away again, breaking their staring contest.

Johnny slinked off to check if the pan was already hot. "Um," he said, clearing his throat and glanced at the camera guys and girls, some of whom were looking embarrassed, others with hearts in their eyes. Then he looked back to Stéphane. "Is there anything else you need?"

"I'm good," Stéphane said, like nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened. "Almost done here. So – who wants to see me flip a pancake right beneath the ceiling?"

"If you manage to hit the ceiling with dough again, I'm going to make you clean it up," Johnny threatened, pointing his finger at him. "And I'm going to hide all the chairs."

 

~*~

 

It really wasn't so bad, in the end. They survived the first day, and neither of them mentioned the kiss or the pancake behavior when they went to bed that night – in separate beds, because the cameras, while still there, were turned off, and no one else but them was left in the apartment.

There was shopping on the agenda the next day, which was more fun. It was where they were in their element, and they both got to do the movie-trailer thing where they tried on a lot of new clothes in quick succession, did a twirl outside the changing booth, and then went back in to try another outfit while everyone else either whistled or gave it the thumbs down, depending on style and fit.

It was easier to pretend here, and Johnny wasn't even caught by surprise anymore when Stéphane randomly pulled him into a hug after someone in the crowd shoved him aside while they were standing at the checkout, or put his hands on Johnny's hips when he was trying on an especially tight pair of jeans underneath a purple vest that was so snug it almost cut off his breath.

They wrapped up in the early afternoon, which suited them both fine. They had to get up early tomorrow. Their schedule said they'd be going to the rink, just the two of them, to skate around and practice with each other so that the crew could get some footage of their interaction on the ice.

Johnny knew they were hoping for a repeat of the pairs skating they'd tried back in Korea; and so the next day, they gave it to them, playing Lady Gaga at full volume while they skated around the rink. This was the easy part, really, this was different from everything back home. On the ice they were playing characters, and Pokerface brought out that part of Johnny where he just wanted to thrust his hips and shimmy down onto his knees, rubbing himself against Stéphane as he straightened back up.

Stéphane didn't protest. If anything, he seemed to be having fun, laughing as he led Johnny across the ice, finishing their routine with a throw that would have made the judges proud. They were standing so close Johnny could feel the vibration of Stéphane's body, the way he was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. Johnny was hard in his tights, and glad he'd chosen to bring his training jacket. He could feel that Stéphane was, too.

"Break?" he called at the crew, and they agreed, letting them off the hook.

Stéphane breathed a sigh of relief against his hair, pulling him up even closer against his chest. "This is really exhausting. I hope you're getting good money for this."

Johnny knew it was said teasingly, that Stéphane didn't mean it the way it sounded, but he was tired and aroused and a little pissed for letting himself be fooled, so he turned around and snapped, "Sorry that pretending to like me is such a hardship for you," before he could stop himself. He skated off towards the exit of the rink, heading out without a care for his blades. It was reminiscent of the old days of storming out of the rink because of a botched run-through.

 

About five minutes later, Stéphane found him sitting on the steps just outside the rink, contemplating whether he wanted to smoke the cigarette he was holding or not.

"You don't want that," Stéphane said as he sat down next to Johnny, plucking it from his fingers.

"You don't get to decide that. Now give it back."

"No." Stéphane stopped him when he tried to reach for it, and said, "Tell me what's going on? You know I didn't mean it that way."

"Yeah." Johnny shrugged. "I'm just tired. Overreacting."

Stéphane nodded. "We have an hour or so of filming left, then we'll go home. I'll tell them we're done for the week, they can come back whenever." He threw the cigarette back at Johnny and rose to his feet. "And for the record. I like you just fine, no pretending necessary." He pushed the door open and let it fall shut behind him before Johnny could reply.

 

~*~

 

Later that evening, Johnny knocked on Stéphane's room door. It took Stéphane a while to open, and when he did, he was on the phone, talking to someone in French. He held up, saying, "One second, I'll be right back," into the phone, then he put his hand over the speaker and gave Johnny a small smile. "What's going on?" He was still speaking French, almost like he'd forgotten to switch to English. It was sort of sweet.

"Want to have dinner and watch a movie later? I'm going downtown to pick up some stuff..."

He expected Stéphane to say no, but instead, Stéphane's smile grew wider, and he said, "The Princess Bride!", which was not what Johnny thought he'd pick. "And sushi?"

"Uh, sure," Johnny said. "Be back in an hour?"

Stéphane nodded, and Johnny left for the take-out and to look for the movie at the rental store.

When he returned, Stéphane had already put out plates on the coffee table by the TV and was sitting down on the couch, texting someone from his cell. There were also high glasses, almost as if he'd anticipated Johnny bringing back a bottle of sake.

"Who are you talking to?" Johnny asked, and laid out the food for them before he popped the DVD into the player. Then he sat down next to Stéphane, close enough to touch if they leaned a little together.

"Right now? My brother. "

"Oh." Johnny pondered this. "Have you been talking with your family about us?"

"If by 'talking' you mean, told them about it, then yes. Not in much detail, though. They know it's complicated and that it wasn't planned, but it's like I told you before. They're fine with however I choose to live my life. And they like you. You've met my mother and my father, right? And they remember you well." Stéphane smiled. "If I need to vent at someone about the whole drama, though, that's what I have Carolina for."

"You guys still talk?" Johnny asked, surprised.

"We've been best friends since I was twelve," Stéphane said. "We're both the type to commit long-term." He grinned at Johnny.

"Yeah, yeah, make fun of me."

"Well, you do tend to change your friends with the regularity of the seasons coming and going."

"Why her, though? Didn't you say you didn't want to involve more people?"

Stéphane shrugged, leaning back. Then he seemed to think differently of it and leaned forwards, getting the wine. "She knew you and me didn't date beforehand, and she figured it out when we spoke the first time after the marriage news leaked. It's not like I was going to lie directly to her face about it. Anyway, after our little publicity stunt when we were teenagers, she knows all about fake relationships."

"I thought you guys dated for real," Johnny said. He nodded when Stéphane offered him wine as well. It was a good one, he'd made sure to ask at the store; it had been expensive. It tasted light on his tongue, especially with the sushi. He usually preferred it warmed, but it seemed it had been expensive enough to taste really good cold, too.

"Oh, we did date for real," Stéphane laughed, popping another one of the rolls into his mouth. "If by dating you mean being best friends with additional hugging and an occasional kiss. It was stupid, one day I just asked her if she wanted to be my girlfriend, because everyone of my friends at school had one, so I wanted one too. She said okay, but asked if it would change anything. It really didn't."

Johnny snorted. "All right. That sounds vanilla."

"She was fourteen at the time, not that I was much better, at sixteen. We really had no clue, and no inclinations to do anything more than kiss now and then." Stéphane shrugged. "We're still best friends, though, I mean, it's not like you throw away years of friendship without a good reason. Plus, she gives good advice. Anyway. Want to turn on the movie? I'm almost done with my food. Did you bring the crackers?"

"Of course," Johnny said, and handed over the pack. "You got the remote on your side, though." He wondered if that's what Stéphane felt about them, too. If he was doing all this because they were friends, because he was the kind of person to do this for someone with whom he'd been friends for years.

He stopped thinking about it, though, after Stéphane refilled his glass for the third time. Half an hour into the movie, they were spread out across the couch, sprawling comfortably, and Johnny couldn't even care about crumbs on the furniture and floors anymore, because the crackers were dry and the sake was really, really good, and they'd eaten maybe thirty different kinds of sushi between them. He felt so full he was close to bursting, and the movie was looking blurry and too far away.

"We're barbarians," he murmured into Stéphane's arm, where he had his face half-buried into Stéphane's sweater. "Daisuke would take our hono-norary Japan badge. Away."

Stéphane smiled. "We're not so bad," he said in French, with a light slur in his accent. "Getting drunk like civilized people, at least."

"Civilized," Johnny giggled. "Yeah, right. Look! It's Princess Buttercup!"

"Fighting off pirates," Stéphane supplied mindlessly. "I want to have sex. With Fred Savage."

"He's so not hot," Johnny protested.

"You'd have sex with Fred Savage. If you could."

"I'd have sex with _anyone_ ," Johnny agreed. "No sex in years. Years!"

"Not true," Stéphane giggled. "We totally had sex. I remember we did. Hot, dirty, drunk sex. Right after we got stupid-married." He couldn't stop laughing, and it made Johnny laugh too. "Oh God."

"It's a little funny," Johnny said, giggling along. He rubbed his hips up against Stéphane's leg because his erection was pressing right against Stéphane's hip and that just wouldn't do. "I'd have sex with you," he admitted then, once he calmed down a bit.

Stéphane gave him a long look, tilting his head like he always did when he was about to do something he knew was very stupid. "Really?"

"Yeah." Johnny let his hand slip to the front of Stéphane's pants and felt for his dick. It wasn't all hard yet, but getting there the longer Johnny kept his hand in place.

"Hmm," Stéphane said. "Me too. You're hotter than Fred Savage."

Johnny laughed, head thrown back, eyes tearing up. "So are you."

"Thanks." Stéphane turned his body so that he was lying on his back, with Johnny slipping between his legs, their hips rubbing together, and his hands were on Johnny's face suddenly, thumb wiping away the tear of laughter. And then he was leaning down and Stéphane was leaning up and their lips just met, it just happened. Complete accident.

Johnny bubbled into the kiss. Stéphane rocked his hips up, and let go of Johnny's face to slide his right hand down his spine and into the back of his pants, cupping his ass.

They kept kissing, making out until they were out of breath, tongues tangling and pausing only to adjust positions, rub their bodies more tightly together, or get rid of excess clothing. There was far too much excess clothing.

And then there were hands and fingers and licking and biting and their erections brushing as they jerked each other off, or rubbed over all kinds of places on each other's bodies. Stéphane's fingers were still on his ass, brushing down the sensitive area below his tailbone, and then lower. They humped and gasped and moaned and kissed more, minutes passing by with just the sound of the movie credits in the background and their noises, sweet, loud, sexy noises, until they both came, Johnny first, crushing Stéphane underneath him, who followed soon, really embarrassingly fast, too, when Johnny slipped down to take him into his mouth.

They didn't manage to clean up properly; Johnny just placed his head on Stéphane's chest, listening to his heart slow down like a drumbeat, and closed his eyes. Stéphane's fingers painted circles along his shoulder blades. He fell asleep to the familiar sounds of the TV flackering after a movie ending and Stéphane's warm breath against the top of his head.

 

~*~

 

When he woke up, he felt disgusting in all sorts of impossible places. He was also aware that he was squished against the back of the couch, and that someone was slowly stroking his naked hip with their fingers. It made different parts of his body take notice, especially on his arms where goosebumps prickled up on his skin.

He felt a yawn coming on and squeezed his eyes shut before blinking them open, trying to see something in the darkness of the room. When his eyes had adjusted, he found himself looking straight into Stéphane's face, whose expression was warm and amused and a little hung-over, like he had trouble focusing.

"Ugh," Johnny said, wriggling. "What time is it?"

"Not yet dawn," Stéphane told him, yawning as well. "Just contemplated if it was worth getting up to head for bed."

"I'm squished," Johnny complained. Then he remembered something else. "And filthy."

Stéphane cleared his throat, looking sheepish. "Yeah. About that."

Johnny's stomach dropped and he felt his face heat up with embarrassment. He suddenly wanted to hide between the cushions and pretend like he hadn't woken up at all.

"I vote shower?" Stéphane offered.

"Mh-mh," Johnny said.

Stéphane slowly got up, and the cool air hit Johnny's skin, making him shiver and break out in a completely different sort of goosebumps. He buried deeper in the couch and realized only a few seconds later that Stéphane wasn't taking off. He lifted his chin a little, and muffled a laugh when he found himself at a very intimate level with Stéphane's body.

"You coming?" Stéphane asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and the look he gave Johnny was half-challenge, half-vulnerability.

It took Johnny a while to realize what Stéphane meant; by then Stéphane was looking more insecure than Johnny had seen him in a while. But he got it, in the end, and scrambled his limbs together in a hurry to assure Stéphane that yes, of course he was coming, gosh he wasn't saying no!

"I'm not doing any funky acrobatics in there, though," Johnny said quickly when Stéphane pushed him into the shower stall, turning on the water.

"You're boring," Stéphane said.

"And you're not using my soap. It's mine, and it was a gift, and –"

"Dear Johnny, please shut up," Stéphane said, positioned him against the tiled wall, and kissed him deeply, holding him by the hips, droplets of hot water hitting his back and the tiles and Johnny's forehead.

"Okay," Johnny said breathlessly when he was let go, and Stéphane turned towards the spray. He didn't think he could quite stand up on his own just yet, which was fine because Stéphane was great to lean against, and if not, well, he didn't think Stéphane would protest him getting down on his knees.

"Your soap smells like a dead rabbit in a flower field, anyway," Stéphane added with a smirk.

"Oh, now _you_ can shut up," Johnny said, and happily showed that he could exercise the same method Stéphane had before in order to achieve that goal, and was probably even better at it, too.

 

~*~

 

It was around five am when they made it out of the shower, wrapped in huge towels. There had been _some_ funky acrobatics, and now Johnny's butt was sore, but they were both clean and sated, and the only question that remained presented itself when they arrived in the hallway between their rooms. There, things got a little awkward.

"My bed's bigger," Johnny said quickly, before Stéphane could decide that he'd maybe rather just sleep in his own bed after all. "We'd both fit really well."

"And I do have my favorite set of pyjamas in your room now," Stéphane agreed. "They have ladybugs on them."

"I know. The guys from the crew made fun of that. Apparently you're a bigger girl than I am."

"There's nothing wrong with being a girl," Stéphane huffed and pushed past Johnny into his room. "And your room still looks like it leaped right out of a Disney catalogue."

"You _really_ want to sleep in your own bed right now, don't you," Johnny said.

Stéphane caught his eyes and held his gaze, serious all of a sudden, no longer joking.

"No," he said. "I really don't."

Johnny's heart grew heavy in his chest, like he was about to do something huge and life-changing, and it choked his voice when he tried to speak, so he had to swallow and only managed to say on his second attempt, "I want you to stay, too."

He didn't want to say out loud that he wanted Stéphane to sleep with him not just for tonight. Maybe even forever. He didn't know if he was the forever kind of guy, but he knew he wanted it tonight, and tomorrow, and maybe the day after that, too, and hopefully, Stéphane would get it without him having to spell it out.

Stéphane's shoulders dropped, and some of the tension left his body as he stepped to the bed, putting his knee up to climb onto it. "I'm not moving in here, though," he said, hitching up his towel. "Just so you know."

"That's good," Johnny countered, coming up next to him, sitting down on the bed with a small grin. "Because I have no space in my closet for your clothes and shoes and handbags."

"But I sort of like it here."

"New York is rather close by –"

"- and I've grown attached to that restaurant down the street –"

"- even though your phone bills will be impossibly high –"

"- and then, there is the part where I'm in love with you."

Stéphane didn't quite look at him while saying that, staring over at his window like shutters were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.

Johnny felt warmth spread through his body from his toes over his knees and the center of his body to his fingertips, tingling. "I, uh," he said, clearing his throat. "Me too."

Stéphane looked over at him then, mischievous and sheepish, his hair sleep-tousled and asked, "Say that again? I didn't quite catch that."

Laughter bubbled up, and Johnny was glad it was dark because he didn't want Stéphane to see the redness in his cheeks. Mostly, he was happy that Stéphane could not stop teasing, even in a moment like this, which was another one of those things that made him insufferable.

"I said I love you too," Johnny said, rolled his eyes hard, because, _honestly_. He let himself fall back onto the bed, bouncing up and down with the mattress, and Stéphane settled in beside him. Johnny could feel the smug air around him.

He snorted and kicked at Stéphane's leg. Stéphane kicked back.

 

~*~

The End.


End file.
